


Promise Me This

by Trixen



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 04:41:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 29,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4692440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trixen/pseuds/Trixen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Willow restores Angel's soul, she brings Wesley and Faith to town in order to help with the First Evil. Everyone is at odds, but no one more so than Wesley and Buffy. As the battle nears, everyone has sex and nearly everyone dies. Fun!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I taste the dust from the exploded vampire as it rushes over my face and smile briefly. It has the flavour of the grave and feels like home. Sticking the stake into my laced up boot, I move in the direction of the crypts. They, also, feel like home. For different reasons, of course. Pushing the uncomfortable and unwelcome thought of Spike’s flesh against mine from my brain; I concentrate on listening for the tell-tale sounds of the undead.  
  
Dead, brown leaves squish underneath my feet and I smell the reek of spring. Mud and wet skies. Everything is moist and new and it makes me feel like the desert. Cold and flat and dry. My fingers are sticky from the cotton candy Dawnie was eating earlier, and which she forced me to try. The fistful I took was pink and pretty. I have a feeling I’ll be throwing it up later.  
  
“Slayer.”  
  
The word is a hiss. I sigh slightly. They never learn.  
  
“Yes?” I mock.   
  
“Tonight is your last on earth.”  
  
“That is so scary. Or it was. But it started getting old about the thirty thousandth time I heard it.” My words are flippant as I search with my senses for the source of the empty threats.  
  
Behind the tangle of bushes to my left. Spinning, I grin. “Hello, gorgeous.”  
  
The vampire steps out and I regard him critically. “Sorry. I’m always jumping to conclusions.”  
  
A growl emits from his throat. “You’re going to die, Slayer.”  
  
“And you would know this, how? Are you going to kill me?”  
  
“If not me, it’ll be the Evil.” His voice is slightly slurred as if he’s been drinking.   
  
“Ooh, frightening. Can we fight now?”  
  
“My pleasure. Your pain.”  
  
Rolling my eyes, I block his first clumsy swing easily, our palms meshing. Curling his fingers around mine, he cracks me in the face but I barely feel it, twisting his wrist and hearing the bones crackle and pop.  
  
Snarling, he lunges again, spit frothing from his lips. Ducking the next punch, I kick out with the force of both my legs, catching him in his plaid covered belly. Continuing the movement of my body, I flip over him and lash out with my fists, pummeling him to the ground.   
  
“Bitch, bitch, bitch,” he growls, attempting to dislodge me.  
  
“I may be the bitch, but I’m the one with the stake,” I grin perkily, grabbing it from my boot and slamming the pointy end into his heart. “Oof,” I groan as he dissolves underneath me and I fall flat on my face.   
  
“Can I offer you a hand?”  
  
Jack knifing back onto my feet, I turn around at the unfamiliar voice and for a moment don’t recognize the man in front of me. Jeans, a brown suede jacket, boots, un-shaven face… huh? “Wesley?”  
  
“You’ve improved, Buffy.”  
  
Irritated for a moment, I slide my hands over my red leather pants, removing the mud clinging to the slippery fabric. “I don’t need a critique. What are you doing here?”  
  
“I came with Willow. To help.”  
  
“Willow’s back?” relieved, I smile faintly. “What was the what in LA? She didn’t give me the details before she booked.”  
  
He looks surprised. “We called her to restore Angel’s soul.”  
  
My belly twists and I feel sick for a moment. “Excuse me? Angelus was back? And no one thought to, I don’t know, give *me* a call?”  
  
“You’re much too emotionally involved with him to fight rationally, Buffy.”  
  
“You don’t know *anything* about that, Wesley. I see you haven’t changed at all. I guess appearances *are* deceiving.”  
  
“I know what I’ve read,” he responds mildly. “Anyhow, we needed someone quickly. We contacted Faith –“  
  
“Faith? They let her out of jail?”  
  
“Not exactly. She escaped, with my help.”  
  
“With your help?” my eyebrows raise. “Last you saw her, wasn’t she cutting you into little bite-sized Wesleys?”  
  
He shrugs slightly. “We needed her assistance. Perhaps you have a better idea about what we could have done?”  
  
“Off the top of my head? I can think of a thousand ideas that are better than letting a murdering sociopath out of jail. But hey! That’s just me.” My tone is withering and I begin to walk away from him.  
  
“Faith is here, Buffy.”  
  
Whirling back around, I poke him in the chest with my finger. “WHAT? You brought that psycho back into my life? When all of this--- what in the *fuck* are you trying to do, Wesley?”  
  
Un-perturbed, he grabs my hand and removes it from his chest. “It was Faith’s decision, Buffy. I couldn’t stop her anymore than you could.”  
  
“Oh, but you’re wrong about that. I stopped her once. I’ll stop her again. She’s going back to jail.”  
  
“I can’t permit that.”  
  
I stare at him, dumb with shock for a moment. “What happened last time you tried to worm your smug ass into *my* fight? You fucked up. I won’t let that happen again. I’m in charge here. Not you. Not by a long shot.”  
  
His eyes meet mine. Dark, underneath the flat glass of his spectacles. “I’m here to help, Buffy. Not to take the power you so adore away from you.”  
  
“Oh God,” I sigh. “Don’t try to Psych 101 me.”  
  
“You’re terrible at asking for help.”  
  
“If I needed a pathetic wuss-boy, I would’ve just called Angel,” I sneer, scuffing my boots against the mud.  
  
“Latent issues?” he questions with a wry smile.  
  
“My stuff. Look… can you handle a weapon? Because the last I checked, all you could do during a battle was scream like a—“  
  
“Woman. Yes, I recall your opinion of me.” He pauses and suddenly I feel uncomfortable, remembering High School and how I acted.  
  
“Look, I got my bitch-on a lot back then, but—“  
  
“I can handle every weapon there is. What I cannot handle are apologies.”  
  
Unwillingly, I feel the sides of my mouth twitch into a grin and am shocked for a second to see an answering predatory glint in his eye. “Fine. Show me.”  
  
For the next hour, he does just that, as we work our way across the cemetery and he uses each and every weapon in my bag. Skilfully and with a precision I find myself grudgingly envying.  
  
Sweating and exhilarated, we end the rounds and walk out onto the street, the lamps casting strange shadows over the planes of his face. “So… what happened to Wesley Wyndham Price? Who killed him and sent Wesley Bad-Ass to Sunnydale?”  
  
“I killed him,” he responds curtly. “But that’s neither here nor there. How serious are things? Willow wasn’t entirely clear on the---“  
  
“You can stay,” I interrupt him. “But don’t assume you’re in charge. I’m the one who gives the orders.”  
  
“I have no doubt.”  
  
“Don’t patronize me.”  
  
“I wasn’t.”  
  
“It must be the accent. Makes everything you say sound condescending.”  
  
“I’ve heard that before. But I swear to you, all I’m here for is to see if I can be of assistance. Going against the First Evil is serious business.”  
  
“As I’ve heard a million times. I don’t need lectures, I need muscle.” Clearing my throat, I glance at him awkwardly but appreciatively. “Which you seem to have gained since you left.”  
  
His mouth quirks; “I work out.”  
  
Embarrassed, I inquire; “Did Willow work her mojo on Angel?”  
  
“If you’re asking did it work, then yes. He’s no longer trying to kill everyone.”  
  
“Did he—“  
  
“How are you doing with the information you have on the First? I presume Giles sent for books from the Watcher’s Council?”  
  
“Nah. It blew up.”  
  
“What did?”  
  
“The Watcher’s Council building. With the Watchers inside. As Faith would say, they’re basically kibbles and bits right about now.”  
  
Faltering, he stops and his hand reaches out, grasping at air. I walk in front of him, gripping his shoulders and forcing him to look at me. “God. I’m sorry. You probably had friends—“  
  
“Family,” he chokes out, tearing free of my hands. “Don’t trouble yourself.”  
  
“Family? Oh God, I’m sorry—“  
  
“Don’t.” Breathing out, he shakes his head. “Just take me to your home. I’d rather not talk about this again if that’s all right by you.”  
  
Helplessly, I stand silently, watching him walk away.   
  
+  
  
“Angel says hello.”  
  
Sitting cross-legged across my bed from Willow, I press my palms flat against the cream duvet and avoid her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”  
  
“I’m sorry, Buffy. But there’s just so much going on—“  
  
“You know how I feel—“  
  
“That’s why I didn’t tell you!” Willow protests, touching my fingers. “You have so much to deal with right now. Why bring Angel into it?”  
  
“That’s not your decision to make,” I remind her steely, finally looking up. “It should have been my responsibility—“  
  
“To restore his soul?” her mouth twists. “You’re not exactly known for your magic prowess, Buffy.”  
  
“To kill him. To fight him. Angelus is my responsibility.”  
  
“Not this time,” she responds coolly. “You didn’t turn him into a monster. I’m the only one who could make him Angel again. Isn’t that what’s important?”  
  
“You lied to me. You told me it was no big deal.” My lower lip trembles. “You told me that it was nothing.”  
  
“So you wouldn’t get involved. So you wouldn’t stop seeing what’s important.”  
  
“You think Angel’s not important? You think that—“  
  
“It’s been four years since he left, Buffy,” she reminds me with icy calm.   
  
“We can’t all be like you Willow. I know it must be difficult for you to understand, given Tara died two seconds ago and you’re already fucking Kennedy’s brains out—“  
  
My head rocks back as Willow slaps me with all of her strength across the cheek. “Don’t you even *talk* about Tara to me, you sanctimonious bitch! I don’t need this bullshit from a basketcase who’s alienating all of her friends. All of the people who love her. I just don’t.”  
  
“At least I try and save the world, not destroy it,” I hurl at her, watching as she begins to walk out the door.  
  
“This is why I didn’t tell you. You can’t see straight when it comes to Angel. You never could. I was trying to save you from the pain—but I don’t know why.”  
  
“I can’t *see* straight? I saw straight enough to kill him, didn’t I?”  
  
“Pretty soon, Buffy, you won’t be able to use the ‘I killed Angel’ Card. It’s getting really old, really quickly,” she sneers and I see flecks of black invade her vision.  
  
“You think that’s a *tactic* I use? To win fights?”  
  
“I know it is.”  
  
“Get out.”  
  
“Aw, but I just got here.”  
  
Glancing up, I see Faith lounging in the doorway, clad entirely in black leather, her mouth curved in an eternal smirk. “You and Willow having a little cat fight?” she continues, looking my best friend up and down. “Personally, I’d bet on the witch. I think she’s got a couple pounds on you B. Which, granted, isn’t saying much, since it looks like a meeting for Under-Eaters Anonymous in here.”  
  
“How is it possible that I forgot how annoying you are?” I wonder aloud.  
  
“I’m going to help Wesley and Giles with the research,” Willow mutters under her breath, leaving the room with one last glare in my direction. “Maybe they’ve found something.”  
  
Faith looks at me for a long time and I resist the urge to squirm underneath her searching gaze, instead meeting it with a cool one of my own.   
  
“Well, B, you look like crap. But I’m sure you knew that. You’ve got a mirror.”  
  
Bristling, I answer; “No, I didn’t know that. Thanks for enlightening me.”  
  
“Any time.”  
  
“Great. Mind telling me what in the hell you’re doing here, then?”  
  
Holding up her pale, callused hands, she shakes her head. “Actually, I come in peace. Just want to help.”  
  
“What changed?” I ask sceptically.  
  
“Jail.”  
  
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I mock. “Did you find God? Did he tell you it’s not nice to kill your friends?”  
  
“I don’t know. Has anyone sent you that memo?”  
  
My eyes narrow as she leans against the wall. “You’ve been talking to my friends.”  
  
“Listening’s more like it. They are a chatty bunch. Not too bright either.”  
  
“Shut up, Faith,” I shoot back, wishing fervently that my eyes were capable of spitting venom. “Don’t walk in here pretending you’re the shit when we both know you’re just an escaped convict.”  
  
“I always knew you were a bitch, Buffy. Just wondered when everyone else would figure it out. From the sounds of things, they all have. Congratulations.”  
  
I collapse back on the bed as she leaves, drained of all energy. The thought that I should be much more upset due to my fight with Willow enters my brain, but for some reason I can’t muster the emotion. What does it matter if she loathes me? If Faith is here? If I inadvertently told Wesley everyone he loves is dead? If Angel had sex with someone and became Angelus—and it wasn’t me? We’re all going to die. I’m going back to Heaven.   
  
Nothing matters. Nothing matters except that by surviving this Hell, I’m coming closer and closer to Heaven.


	2. Chapter 2

Spike’s fingers look like thin, pale fish against my arms as he holds me, my body pressed tightly to the wall. I’m sweating. His lips are curled back against his teeth and his eyes glint cruelly in the faint wash of light. I don’t struggle. Wishing for a moment that he would slide his palms over my breasts, I banish the thought as he whispers;

“Ready whenever you are, pet.”

“Now.”

He lets go of my body and blocks the first punch with a lightening swift movement, retaliating with a crack to my jaw. It doesn’t hurt and I smile, rallying to elbow his nose and flip him onto his back.

“You’ve been seeing a lot of Giles Jr. lately,” he comments, getting back to his feet without trouble and we continue to spar.

“Wesley?”

“Yeah.”

Doing a neat somersault, I land and kick him straight in the stomach. “So? He researches. He patrols. He helps. More than I can say for most of the people ‘round here.”

“Sorry. I not being *bad* enough for you, Summers?”

My mouth twists and I place my hands on my hips. “What’s this about?”

“Your inspirational speeches,” he replies sarcastically, hooking his thumbs through his belt loops. “Which, by the way, I haven’t been feeling too inspired by.”

“Are you trying to pick a fight?”

“Why would I do that?” he mocks.

“Because you’re jealous?”

His grin fades. “Of what?”

“I’ve been pre-occupied. You’re feeling…left out?”

“Don’t condescend to me, Summers,” he snaps, turning his back and removing a package of cigarettes from his pocket. “Don’t think you have the slightest idea what I’m feeling, or when I’m feeling it.”

“You told me to—“

“What? Move on? You took that brief brush with nobility, *seriously*?” sneering, he spins around and lights a smoke, dragging in the nicotine briefly. “I’m not that wanker Angel.”

“Did I say you were?” exasperated, I throw my hands up in the air. “Spike—I’m not even involved with anyone. All I can concentrate on is the First. Is making sure no one else dies. Don’t you understand that that has to be my biggest priority?”

“Why’d you get on your high horse with the Witch, then?” he asks sulkily.

Sucking in a breath, I shake my head. “What?”

“Heard about the whole thing.”

“Is this what this is—are you jealous of Angel? Oh, God, please—get a grip, Spike. There are so many more important things—“

“Doesn’t sound like you thought so.”

“Its true that I feel Angelus is my responsibility,” I respond patiently. “But that’s as far as it goes. Can we get back to training?”

“Nah,” he responds. “Don’t feel like it.”

“You’re just being an asshole.”

“I’m being a *vampire*,” he corrects. “Get used to it, Buffy. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it? The return of the bad-ass Spike? Well fuck if I’ll be your bloody lapdog. Find someone else to trade punches with.”

Sighing, I take a few steps toward him. “I know this is hard, but—“

“What’s hard?”

“This. You and me. But it’ll get easier.”

“It’s never gotten easier,” he says bleakly, stubbing out the cigarette with his boot.

“Maybe—maybe you were right.”

“’Bout what?”

“Maybe it would be better if you left.”

His head snaps up. “What? Now you’re *ready*?”

“No,” I answer softly. “No. But—if it’s this difficult for you…”

“I really—“ breaking off, he reaches out, grasping my hand in his. I start slightly at the contact, the feel of his skin bringing back unwelcome memories. “I really did do this all for you.”

He smells like ashes and roses. Always did. Even in that small, secret place behind his ear where I would bury my mouth as he came inside me. My belly contracts fiercely and I step away from him.

“I know you did.”

“If you know… if you know, then why?”

“I can’t go back.”

“Never?” Spike’s eyes lock with mine and I shiver, unwillingly.

My fingers touch his cheek and he looks surprised. Everything blurs for a moment as I lean close and inhale, finally pressing my mouth to his in a swift, sweet kiss. He feels sharp and wary and trembles against my breasts, trying to steady himself enough to return the embrace. His teeth brush my lips and a small drop of copper drips onto his tongue from the wound I received last night on patrol. Hearing his groan, I step away and lick my mouth clean of any red, tasting him, hot and heavy on my skin.

“Buffy—“

“Don’t. Just take it for what it is.”

“Which is what?”

Already walking away, I whisper; “It’s not a promise. I’m sorry.”

+

As I walk through the cool, slightly windy cemetery with Wesley, I imagine I’m on a beach. Lying stretched out, naked, on warm sand. The sun burning my face. The salt from the ocean drying on my flesh. I imagine being itchy and hot and satisfied, the weight of Angel’s arm on my belly, the smell of him between my thighs and in my hair and on my tongue. I can see the painfully bright skies, hear the crash of the Caribbean blue surf, taste the stickiness of Angel’s mouth on mine.

I remember it.

“Where are you?”

The blunt, quiet question awakens me from my reverie and I glance up at my companion. “What? Oh— what do you mean?“

“You weren’t here just now. You were someplace else. I was just wondering where.”

“You wouldn’t understand,” I say softly, firmly. “Just memories.”

“As you wish,” Wesley answers, with acceptance in his eyes. “Would you like to hear how the research has been progressing?”

Grateful for the change in subject, I grin wryly. “Unless a book grew a mouth and told you how to fight the First, I’m guessing we’re still at the same dead end.”

“Unfortunately, yes, you’re correct. I was hoping we would have had a break-through by now.”

“Don’t fret about it, Wes. We haven’t had a break-through in months. It’s not as if you did anything especially bad to throw us off course or something.”

“Mmm,” he murmurs non-commitedly.

Fresh soil begins to stir around a grave to our left and I nod. “Told you it was gonna be a slow night. There’s our first catch.”

He follows me as I walk to the plot, hoisting myself up onto the marker, avoiding looking at the name. They still give me nightmares.

“This could take a while. So… talk to me. How’s life in LA? Obviously agrees with you more than Sunnydale.”

“True,” he agrees. “Things have been better, to be honest. But they’ve also been worse.”

“How bad have they gotten?” I ask, my throat dry. I never let myself think about what goes on only two hours from me. Who could be hurt. Who could be dead. If I couldn’t face the truth, why think about it? When I get the call that he’s dust, I’ll deal with it. Until then, there’s no harm in pretending he doesn’t exist.

“Terrible,” he comments. “And I’m not prone to exaggeration.”

“Ah.”

Looking curious, Wesley leans against a statue of an angel, his shoulder blades settling into the furrowed wings. “What happened between you and him?”

“What?”

“The Watcher Diaries only tell so much.”

“Nothing happened. That was always the problem. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“You don’t like talking about him.”

I raise an eyebrow, shifting on the stone. “Why would I?”

“It’s been four years,” he observes mildly.

“So everyone loves to remind me. I’m not discussing him with you, Wes.”

“You don’t discuss him with anyone.”

“How would you know?” I bristle and fiddle with the stake in my pocket. The tip feels like it should be soaked in blood.

“From what I’ve gleaned…”

“Nothing you’ve heard will tell you anything true,” I whisper. “Unless Angel—“

“No. He’s just as close-mouthed about it, actually. As if you two signed a confidentiality agreement or something similar.”

Swallowing, I lean back and gaze up at the stars. They hang heavy and low in the sky, burning thousands of years away. “We had a bad relationship that ended badly and it was all just a big, bad mess. That about sum it up?”

His mouth quirks at the corner. “Sorry, what kind of relationship was it?”

I relax. This, I can handle. “You’re making fun of me.”

“Not at all. I admire the way you can hide your feelings so completely.”

My smile fading, I narrow my eyes in his direction. “That doesn’t sound like a compliment.”

“It wasn’t. I thought I was using my sarcastic voice,” he comments dryly.

“I wouldn’t know what that sounds like.”

“You will.”

As the moist soil between us begins to stir more rapidly, I cock my eyebrow at him. “Want to take this one together?”

“Love to.”

+

Scorching jets of water rain down on me from the shower head, and lifting my face to the spray, I open my mouth, letting the water sear the insides of my lips. My skin begins to prickle all over and looking down, I see red blotches scarring my wrists and knees. Steam fills my nostrils and makes it hurt to breathe. Enjoying the faint pain, I soap up and rinse, the water stinging my eyes.

“Want some company?”

Startled, I turn the knob, watching the last traces of crimson wash down the drain. “Get out, Faith.”

“Aw, B, I’m just trying to help. Relieving some tension might be good for you.”

“Hand me a towel.”

“Nah, I don’t think I’m gonna do that.”

“Fine.” Too weary of her games to protest, I pull the curtain across and step out, attempting to ignore her eyes as I grab a bath-sheet from the rack, wrapping it around myself. “Is this seriously how you get your kicks?”

She doesn’t appear to be listening to me and un-screws the caps from the bottles of moisturizers sitting on the counter. “You’ve really become me, haven’t you, B? I thought you would, but I wasn’t certain till I came here. Certainly never got an inkling from Angel.”

“What do you know about Angel?” the words echo those I spoke so long ago and I see her smile as she remembers.

“The story sure remains the same,” she replies obliquely.

Dragging a brush through the wet strands of my hair, I regard her dead-on. “What do you want, Faith? I know you came here for a reason.”

“Wanted to see what had changed in the ‘Dale. Nothing has. Serves me right, I guess.”

“Are you planning something?” I ask coolly.

“You think I’m eager to go back to that hellhole known as the state correctional facility?”

“How should I know?”

“Right. How *should* you know? We haven’t said shit to each other for years and you think you have any idea what I’m thinking? Things have changed, Buffy. I’m not the same fucked up chick you knew.”

“Yes you are,” I return with certainty. “You’re just big on hiding it now. Like when you first came here. Had us all fooled. Well, not again. I won’t let you hurt my friends.”

“You mean William the Bloody?” Faith drawls, stepping closer and running a finger down the slick flesh of my inner wrist. “I kinda like that you’re fucking him, B. Just proves its really vampires that get your panties in a twist, not just Angel.”

Stung, I move away from her, cracking the brush on the counter and watching it break. “I am *not* fucking Spike. Who—“

“Had a talk with him. Interesting guy.”

“He was lying.”

“Somehow I doubt it. The way you’re getting all hot and bothered in that boring way you always did over Angel? Means your heart’s involved. Really, its touching.”

“Don’t try and bait me, Faith.”

“So how many has it been now, Buff? You’re getting up there- with the notches on the bed post, I mean. Angel, Riley, Spike… and how many hot one night stands in between? I’m impressed. Always knew once you shed that good girl act you’d be—“

My hand shoots out and grabs her collar. “Don’t fuck with me, Faith. I don’t have time for you. Never did. If you try and hurt anyone I love, I will *kill* you. I mean it. Human or not.”

She laughs, her body drifting toward mine. “You really get off on the power trips. Reminds me of me. And here I always thought you were the one with the heart.”

“I have a heart.”

“I have my doubts that it even fucking *beats*,” she retorts and my breath hitches.

“It beats. At least I haven’t killed anyone lately.”

“Such a hypocrite.”

“Such a psycho.”

Her breath fans over my mouth. Closer. Its so hot in here. Sweat beads on her upper lip.

“Don’t fuck with *me*, Buffy.”

“What are you gonna do, F?” I mimic her. “Kill me?”

Her mouth curves in an appreciative smile. “We understand each other.”

“I don’t want to understand you.”

“But you do.”

Shivers of fear skate up my spine. “Don’t try and make me you.”

“I don’t have to. You’ve done it just fine on your own.”

She smells sweet. Like leather and apples. God, I’m tired. She makes me tired and she gets under my skin and I hate her for being there. It makes me feel itchy. But not like when I lay on the sand with Angel. Its not like sand and ice cream with Faith. She’s like thousands of bee stings and God, I wish I could choke her and God, Heaven and I need—I need--

“I want you to—“

“BUFFFFFY!”

The shriek slices right through my belly and I feel my guts spill out as if Dawn has taken a razor to the center of my body.

“Dawn!” I shout back, pushing away my sister Slayer and hurling open the door, causing it to come off the hinges. I push away the broken wood, dozens of tiny splinters making my hands bleed. I don’t feel it. Slipping and tripping down the stairs in nothing but my skimpy towel, I enter the living room and see nothing at first except a broken leg, peeking out from behind the table. I hear nothing but Dawn’s sobbing. It’s Kennedy.

Her throat is slashed and a neat line of blood from her neck to her collar makes it look as if she’s wearing a cherry-coloured bib. Vomit swells in the back of my mouth and I swallow frantically, looking up and seeing Spike standing in the corner. Cowering.

I shake my head. “No.”

He’s mumbling, humming.

“Spike, NO!”

He looks up at me and his eyes are yellow.

“Such a pretty maid.”


	3. Chapter 3

Kennedy’s eyes are open, staring at a point above my left shoulder. Her mouth is gaping wide in a fevered, silent scream. Rigor Mortis is already setting in and I watch dumbly as her skin begins look as if it’s stretched tight over her bones. Blood clots around her throat and bubbles over the thin line that Spike cut in her flesh. I gaze up at him and attempt to ignore Dawn’s incoherent sobs. My sister is lying in a contorted ball on the couch, her legs twisted, her hands over her eyes.   
  
“Quiet, Dawn. Please,” I plead, never tearing my stare away from Spike’s.  
  
“I—I—I’ve got to get Willow. Oh God…”   
  
“NO. No. Don’t get her. She’ll kill—I have to figure out what happened.”  
  
“I—I saw him do it.”  
  
“You what?” I whisper, startled. My fingers are covered in Kennedy’s blood. It’s dead and cold and suddenly I realize there is warm crimson soaking my inner thighs. Oh Jesus. Of all the times. Why, when I feel so dead, does my body still insist I’m alive? Why doesn’t it just have the sense to lie down?  
  
Dawn looks as if she’s un-ravelling. “I saw him kill her. I was making—I wanted a peanut butter sandwich and I came through to go to the kitchen--- he was slicing open her throat and he was singing—“  
  
My stomach roils and I stand, gazing over to where Spike cowers in the corner, his palms covering his own head. A knife is jammed in his pocket and the tip has cut a neat hole in the fabric, staining it a darker brown. I can hear him humming under his breath but somehow I don’t think he’s in the First’s control any longer. They’ve used him for the day and now he’s been tossed aside again to face the aftermath.   
  
“Spike.”  
  
He doesn’t look up at my whisper.  
  
“Spike,” I say again, more forcefully. “You have to leave. Now.”  
  
“Buffy, what are you doing?” Dawn asks, horrified.  
  
“Shut up Dawn.” Taking a step closer to my ex-lover, I will him to look at me. “Spike, you have to leave. Do you understand me? Willow’s going to be here. She’ll find Kennedy— do you get what I’m saying? She’ll kill you. You have to—“  
  
Dawn’s hands pull at my arm. There’s a crunching sound as I stumble and crush Kennedy’s leg bones with my foot.   
  
“Stop it, Dawnie!” I cry out, feeling sick.  
  
“You stop it!” she sobs. “You’re trying to… how can you save Spike? Buffy, I – I love him to, but Kennedy’s dead! Don’t you…”  
  
“I understand,” I tell her frantically. “But Willow will kill him!”  
  
“Would that be so bad?” she inquires through sniffles. “Look at Kennedy, Buffy! Her throat is—God, she looks like a wild animal attacked her. She looks…”  
  
“Dead,” I finish for her. “She looks dead. She is dead. But I don’t want Spike to be. Something is controlling him- but Willow won’t understand that. She’ll murder him and I don’t blame her but I can’t let that happen, don’t you see?”  
  
“No, I don’t see!” she says hotly. “You’re babbling- you’re insane! You can’t cover this up—“  
  
“I’m not going to cover it up!” I exclaim. “I’m just giving him time to get away before she flays him alive! Which she has been known to do to people who murder the girls she’s sleeping with.”  
  
Dawn shakes her head, slowly backing away from me. “How can you…? How—how can you joke at a time like this. God, I can smell Kennedy’s blood everywhere. It’s on you. It’s on Spike.” Her throat works but no sound comes out for a moment. “I’m going to throw up.” Gagging, she runs to the downstairs bathroom.  
  
I stand still for a second, wondering what I would have done two… even three years ago in this situation? I don’t really have to wonder. I know. I would have staked Spike immediately and walked through the remnants of his dust to help Dawn, holding her hair back as she threw up. I would have called Willow and broke the news to her as gently as possible, holding her close as she wept. It would have been me who arranged Kennedy’s funeral, who helped dress her and clean the blood pooling from her throat. I can imagine Willow’s red-rimmed eyes and the way Dawn would babble non-sensically throughout the service, unable to shut her mouth during times of crisis. I can imagine a lot of things. But they aren’t what’s happening. It isn’t three years ago and this can’t be me… I don’t want this to be me, but it is. It is.  
  
“Oh shit,” Faith says eloquently from the bottom of the stairs.   
  
“Go find Willow and the others,” I instruct her.  
  
“Buffy—“  
  
“Just go!” I shout and my tone must strike her. She runs out the door without further complaint.  
  
“Spike,” I say softly, gripping him hard. “Let’s go.”  
  
“Buffy… Buffy…” he mumbles. “God, I’m sorry. Stake me. Please.”  
  
“Get to the crypt,” I respond, ignoring him. “I’ll come and see you later.”  
  
“I don’t remember. I don’t remember killing her.”  
  
“I know you don’t,” I answer quietly. “That’s why you have to leave, all right? Willow won’t understand that.”  
  
“Won’t understand what?” he murmurs.  
  
“That you didn’t mean to kill her. That you didn’t want to.”  
  
“Her blood smells like heaven.”  
  
The word jolts through me. “Just go.”  
  
“No— stake me. I don’t deserve to live. I don’t deserve anything.”  
  
“I know you can do better than this. Once we—once we beat this thing. I know you’re going to come out of this. You have a soul now. Things are different.” The smell of Kennedy’s blood and my own begin to mix. I feel dizzy. “Please, go to the crypt. I’ll come by later once this mess is dealt with.”  
  
Stumbling and nodding, he opens the door and steps out into the night. I watch him go, sliding a hand over my cramping belly. Glancing down at Kennedy, I wince at her outstretched fingers, as if she was trying to reach towards something that just wouldn’t come. I know the feeling. Bending down, I shut her eyes with my palms, feeling the slide of her eyelashes against my skin, slick as rain. She’s gone and she annoyed me and I’m sorry. But what can I do?   
  
I pull the green and blue afghan off the couch, settling it over Kennedy’s body. It seals shut like a coffin and I shudder inwardly, kneeling down and waiting for Willow, Xander and Anya to come back with the Potentials from the cemetery over on Eastwood Street. Hopefully Faith was able to find them. Hopefully she doesn’t say anything insensitive but I know that is a useless wish.   
  
My eyes close as I lean back. Reaching with my hand, I find the Kleenex box on the table by the couch and slide a few between my legs, holding them there with my palm. I can hear Dawn crying quietly and can almost see her lying on the cool tiles of the bathroom floor, her check pressed against it as if the world is ending. Much like she did when Mom died.   
  
Sometimes I think I’m the only one that remembers she’s still dead.  
  
I wonder dreamily for a moment whether or not she’s in Heaven. Kennedy, that is. My Mom still lives in the house and I don’t think she’s ever left.   
  
I remember.  
  
The beach and itchy sand on my bare thighs. Warm weight of Angel’s arm against my belly as he kissed me and slipped a hand underneath the towel covering my breasts. Taste of him in my mouth and a burning sun filling my eyes with images brighter than the stars.   
  
“Don’t let them come for me.”  
((I won’t let anything happen to you.))  
“They’re going to want me back.”  
((I won’t let anyone take you.))  
“I can’t go back, there. Do you understand?”  
((I love you. So much it hurts.))  
“I love you.”  
  
I remember.  
  
I remember everything. And sometimes I think that’s a shame.  
  
Glancing out the window, I see them all coming home, their shadows brilliant beneath the moon. I take a breath, looking down once more at Kennedy’s outstretched hands, the tips of her fingers glowing beneath the thin weave of the blanket.   
  
+  
  
I lie beneath the covers of my bed, alone. No Potentials sleep on the floor and there is no Spike with his arms wrapped around me, trying to pretend I really want him there. All I can hear is Willow’s silent grief and rage. When I told her what had happened and when she saw the body that was once her lover, she immediately went in search of Spike but came back empty-handed. I was almost sick with relief when Xander relayed the news that she couldn’t find him. I know where he is but I won’t tell her. Not yet. Maybe not ever.  
  
“Buffy? May I come in?”  
  
It’s Wesley and I don’t think I’ve ever heard his voice sound so old.  
  
Pulling the sheet securely over my naked breasts, I call out; “Come in.”  
  
He opens the door and nods to me, not looking at all perturbed that I’m in bed. “Sorry to disturb you.”  
  
“I wasn’t sleeping.”  
  
Walking over to the window, he takes a breath. “You’re not thinking with your head, Buffy.”  
  
“What am I thinking with?”  
  
“Your heart? Your crotch?” he turns back to look at me. “Who can tell?”  
  
Too shocked for a moment to respond, I finally find my voice; “Don’t you fucking talk to me that way.”  
  
“Why not? Someone has to shake some sense into you.”  
  
“I’m not a little girl,” I reply angrily, sitting up. “I know—“  
  
“If you realize what he’s capable of… if he know, why haven’t you acted? Why have you left him in close proximity with a myriad of young women who are integral to the survival of this planet?”   
  
I stare at him, stricken. “I can’t kill him.”  
  
“Willow might, if you don’t. Send him away.”  
  
“I can’t.”  
  
“Buffy—“  
  
“No, Wes. You have no idea… I just can’t kill him. I can’t do it. Don’t ask me to. Don’t tell me to. Don’t say anything to me.” Shaking, I fall back, curling up in a ball against the pillows. They feel soft against my cheek and smell like dry linen, reminding me of my Mother.   
  
I don’t even hear him. Grabbing me by the arms, Wesley jerks me up and within an inch of his face. I can feel his breath on my lips as he talks.  
  
“I won’t listen to your sob story any longer. Not while people are dying. You are the Slayer. It is your duty to protect these girls, not indulge in a teenage melodrama with your lover!” his tone is low and intense. “If you won’t do your job, someone else will have to.”  
  
“I’ll kill anyone who goes near him.”  
  
“Who will you kill, Buffy?” he inquires quietly, still holding me close.  
  
I feel my nipples swell as they press against the fabric of his T-shirt and bite my lower lip. “Anyone.”  
  
“Willow, Giles, Xander? Me? Would you kill Dawn?” Our eyes lock. “What if I were to call Angel and ask him to visit from LA? Would you kill him to?”  
  
The back of my throat stings and I taste vomit. “I…”  
  
“How many lives are to be put at risk because of what you feel?”  
  
“Please, Wes.”  
  
“Please what?” he asks, his lips a breath away from mine.  
  
“Please don’t ask me to do this.”  
  
“Send him away, Buffy. I can appreciate what you’ve gone through. As a Slayer and as a woman. But it’s too late now to fix anything. Spike is a danger. Spike has proven that he’s a danger. Either stake him or make him leave.”  
  
Helplessly, I shiver beneath his punishing grip but I don’t struggle. “He’s all I have left.”  
  
“That’s not true. You have a family here, Buffy. And you would be foolish to throw it away.”  
  
Something in his tone makes me stop. “Have you? Thrown away a family?”  
  
“I did once,” Wesley replies honestly, bowing his head. Strands of his dark hair brush my chin. “I don’t regret it. But I did not toss it away for love. It was done to protect the world. You have the same choice to make now.”  
  
“I don’t know what to choose.”  
  
Raising an eyebrow, he regards me seriously. “Yes, you do. You’re simply too frightened to make a decision. A decision you know is the right one.”  
  
“How can I stake him? He didn’t realize what he was doing. It’s a long story but—“  
  
“Giles filled me in.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“I still think he’s a necessary sacrifice.”  
  
Shaking my head bitterly, I break free of his hands. “Easy for you to say, isn’t it Wes? You waltz in here after four years without a word and think you *know* anything about who could be sacrificed?”  
  
“I know that you chose to have his violence prohibiting chip removed so that he would not feel pain. That doesn’t show very sound judgement.”  
  
“You have *no* idea what the circumstances were—“  
  
“It was a chip that prevented him from killing innocent human beings, Buffy. I don’t see how the circumstances could possibly be important in this case.”  
  
“You wouldn’t see them, would you?” I say scornfully, leaning back and staring at him. “Everything’s black and white to you, Wes. Always has been. Slayer and Watcher. Duty and Personal Attachments. All placed in neat little compartments for you to manage how you like. Some people can’t live like that! I’m one of them. That’s why you never worked as my Watcher—“  
  
“I’m still technically your Watcher, Buffy,” he informs me huskily and suddenly I know he’s staring at the dusky brown of my nipples, delineated underneath the thin sheet.  
  
“What’s the matter? Angry I never listened to you the way I did Giles?” I ask mockingly.   
  
“I don’t think you’ve ever listened to anyone, Buffy. Which is unfortunate.”  
  
“I listened to Spike sometimes. You know, ‘open your legs wider.’ ‘Take it deeper.’ Orders like that are fine with me.”  
  
His eyes glint. “The fact that you feel the need to bait me at a time like this only confirms my suspicions.”  
  
“What suspicions?”  
  
“That you are and *were* in dire need of a better Watcher. One who could have given you a firm hand when you needed it.”  
  
“Sounds kinky to me,” I tease him breathily, enjoying the power I know I hold. “Besides, Giles was the best Watcher a girl could ever ask for.”  
  
“Because he let you run wild.”  
  
“He was like a Father to me,” I return firmly and he suddenly touches the palm of my hand. His fingers slide, hot and stinging, up my wrist, tracing the spell of veins beneath my skin.  
  
“*That*, I could never be.”  
  
My breath comes short. “I know.”  
  
“Will you do it, Buffy?”  
  
“I’ll send him away.”  
  
Wesley’s eyes glow in the moonlight. “Good.”  
  
+  
  
Slowly and carefully, I open the trap door in Spike’s crypt. Dust motes drift to the ceiling and I cough slightly, smelling blood-oranges and acidic bleach. Dirt clings to my clothes as I lower myself down, falling gently to my feet and seeking out Spike immediately. He’s sprawled in one corner, leaning against the muddy wall with a bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand and a cigarette in the other.  
  
Kennedy’s blood is still on his clothes.  
  
“Hi.”  
  
He doesn’t look up. “Was wonderin’ when you’d show up.”  
  
“Things have been… tense.”  
  
“Can imagine. You here to do the duty? Should I be making my peace with God?”  
  
I don’t smile. “I’m here to tell you to leave. The only reason Willow hasn’t fried you like chicken yet is because she doesn’t know about this place.”  
  
His eyelashes flicker. “You didn’t tell her?”  
  
“No. But you have to leave. Because she’ll find you eventually.”  
  
Spike stands, his legs trembling. “I have no doubt. The witch has talent.”  
  
“Talent for being black eyed and scary, maybe,” I shrug and walk over to him, grasping the bottle of liquor and screwing on the cap. “You shouldn’t be drunk if you’re taking your motorcycle.”  
  
“I’ve ridden that thing thousands of times. Could do it with my eyes closed.”  
  
“The bravado isn’t a turn on,” I reply dryly. “Did you pack?”  
  
“I’ve got nothing here,” he looks up at me. “’Cept you. Wanna come?”  
  
My breath hitches and I gaze at him, answering softly; “You know I can’t. I’m sorry.”  
  
“We could’ve been somethin’, Buffy.”  
  
“No we couldn’t have, Spike.”  
  
His laughter is hoarse. “Sorry. Sorry that I killed the girl. I don’t even… I don’t remember it yet. I will later.”  
  
“Is the liquor in preparation for that?” I ask, touching his face.  
  
He catches my hand in his own, pressing a kiss to my palm. “You know me too well, Summers.”  
  
“Goodbye, Spike.”  
  
Drawing me close, he embraces me briefly and then looks away, grabbing his helmet and nodding in my general direction.  
  
“See ya, Buffy.”  
  
He leaves, through the tunnels, and I watch him go.  
  
He doesn’t look back and he didn’t say Goodbye.   
  
They never do.


	4. Chapter 4

Faith looks like the moon. The secret shadows of her face glint as we walk through the cemetery at dusk, her movements purposeful and confident in a way I don't remember. Her hair flows soft down her back, like a blue-black river that I used to think I would drown in. I no longer feel the burn of hot jealousy deep in my gut, but in a vague, half-formed way, I sense that I'm not quite over her. She has remained at the edges of my life for years, prickling away at the back of my brain. I told Faith once that I was better than her. Sometimes I still believe it. Sometimes I don't. Sometimes I don't recognize the girl who said those words.  
  
"Found what you were looking for?" she asks, her eyes scanning the graveyard pensively.  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"You were staring, B," she smiles slightly and her teeth appear, crooked and white and oh so sharp. "Willow talk to you yet?"  
  
My throat aches. "No. S'only been a week though. She's still mourning and I... I don't want to pressure her."  
  
"What 'bout Xand?"  
  
"Nope," I scuff the ground as we walk, mud oozing around the soles of my black boots. "No talkage from him either."  
  
Faith laughs derisively. "Figures. Despite his dreams of being Mr. Summers, he still sides with the Witch. Xander's so predictable."  
  
"Makes sense," I justify blankly. "They've got the yellow crayon in common after all. How can I compete with kindergarten memories?"  
  
"If I hear the story one more time, I swear to God, I'll pop Xander's head like a grape."  
  
"And at least some of that was sarcasm, right?"  
  
"Some of it," Faith concedes, quickly staking a vampire that pops out of the bushes.  
  
"Fast work," I compliment and she shrugs.  
  
"Been practicing."  
  
"Oh... do they... have places where you can do that? In the jail, I mean?"  
  
The air is moist with Spring and heavy with all of the things we cannot-will not-say. Her expression is neutral for a moment and then she speaks;  
  
"Y'know, I never really said I was sorry."  
  
"For what?" I joke lightly, wishing she hadn't started this. I just don't have time and I'm not the same person she hurt. It feels like years ago. It feels like Heaven and a rebirth ago. "I don't want apologies, Faith. I don't need 'em."  
  
"Maybe this isn't about what you need, B."  
  
Flushing, I look at her. "Are you saying I'm self-involved?"  
  
Her mouth quirks. "According to your Scoobies, you can't have a conversation unless it revolves around yourself or Spike."  
  
"They..." pausing, I clear my throat, "they really said that?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"That's not true."  
  
"Isn't it?"  
  
"Spike's gone," I murmur painfully. "So that's that."  
  
"That's that?" Faith mimics and raises an eyebrow in my direction scathingly. "Good work, B. Nice to know you've learned how to suck all the emotion from a situation."  
  
"What's the use in talking about it?" I ask her, pushing the blonde weight of my hair off my forehead. "He's gone. Kennedy's dead. Willow hates me. None of us have any hope in Hell of winning this war. Isn't life grand?"  
  
"It's *ain't* life grand," she corrects me with a smirk. "If you're gonna be doom n' gloom, at least get it right. Besides, you've got some things to be thankful for."  
  
"Like what?" I scoff; horrified to feel sudden tears smarting against my eyelids. I walk ahead of her, hoping she won't see. "Xander isn't talking to me. Dawn can't go into the living room without gagging. The blood stain that Kennedy left won't wash out. The Potentials won't fucking pay *attention*. Wes bosses me around like the fucking prick I always knew he was. My boyfriend killed my best friend's girlfriend. Angel didn't even come back and help. Giles is acting weird-"  
  
"Woah, woah, B," Faith stops me, her long pale fingers closing around my arm. I can almost feel them against my skin, through the layers of fabric, and don't shake her off. God, she feels alien. God, she feels like my past. "First of all, never knew you could swear like that. I like it on you. Second of all, Angel would've come and helped if you had asked him-"  
  
"I'm not asking him for anything," I snap, tearing free of her grip.  
  
"Can I---?"  
  
"No."  
  
Her sigh is exaggerated and dramatic and for a moment, I feel an unwilling grin flirt with my lips.  
  
"Why not? I just wanna know the juicy gossip."  
  
"There's no juice. Angel and I are juice-free. We come with a big, red sticker that attests to that fact."  
  
"Big and red? Sounds like a warning sign to me."  
  
Rolling my eyes, I continue to stomp away from her, the grass making sucking sounds as I walk. "Why do I suddenly feel like I'm with a Psych Major?"  
  
"Cause you look like you need help."  
  
"You're the one headed for the nuthouse. Not me," I say insensitively, uncaring of how the words might hurt her. From Faith's sudden giggle, I realize I overestimated my power to wound with words. Better to stick with stakes. "If I don't care what happened with Angel and I, no one else should. End of story."  
  
"That'd be fair enough," she agrees, coming up beside me. "If you didn't so obviously care, that is."  
  
Ignoring her, I scan the cemetery a creature to slay. Anything would do right about now. My fingers itch and suddenly the question is out before I can stop it. "How did he-how did he seem?"  
  
"Fine."  
  
For a moment I consider killing her.  
  
"Fine?"  
  
"Yeah, B. He was fine. As much as a guy who's just went on a rampage as Angelus can be, I guess."  
  
My belly roils sickeningly. "Did he -"  
  
"Ask me to tell you anything? Nope."  
  
"That wasn't what I was going to say."  
  
"Liar."  
  
"I might have to pick up the phone and dial LA soon, anyway," I shrug. "If things heat up, we may need the muscle. I guess I shouldn't have turned down that extra power."  
  
"What power?" Faith inquires.  
  
"Long story. The Cliff's Notes of it all is that some guys offered me extra power to defeat the First. I said a resounding no way in Hell. It felt..." pausing, I swallow back the sting of vomit, "it felt like rape. As if they were trying to invade my body. I just-it felt too familiar."  
  
"Familiar? What are you saying', B?" Faith stops in her tracks and forces me to halt along with her. Her palms grasp my face and she looks straight into my eyes. Her gaze is searching and suddenly I'm reminded of the days when we were like sisters. When there was a bond that I felt was unbreakable between us.  
  
"Spike," I whisper.  
  
"That fucker *raped* you?"  
  
"Tried," I shrug, uncomfortable. The cold bathroom floor. Roar of his words. Feel of sharp fingers and the stab of his cock against my dry, unyielding flesh. His desperation and the blood dripping down my back and the slam of the bathtub against my kidneys. How did my screams sound like Yes's? But they must've sounded like Yes, Please, Yes, Yes...to him...because he didn't stop and he just wouldn't stop-and it almost got quiet. Like he couldn't hear me anymore and he just wanted to make me feel it and he loved me and I was going to want this-he would make me want this-but no...I can't go through it all again. I can't make myself understand.  
  
Faith's breath is sticky and smells like the tomato and spice lasagne they all had for supper. "Before he became the soul-having crazy he is now?"  
  
I refuse to meet her eyes. "That's about it, yeah."  
  
"You still care about him?"  
  
"It's complicated," I immediately snarl; on the defensive. "Souls make it complicated... besides, it was a culmination of things. We beat on each other for months. I was using him. He was in love. It was messy."  
  
"Sounds like it." Her voice is without inflection.  
  
"I hated my friends and he hated me and I hated him..." I trail off, lost suddenly. "I can't even remember how it started. *Why* it started. All I know is that I fucked him up and he just... he just fucked me. It was never going to end well. But he changed... I was sure he changed. If only the First hadn't gotten to him. I just don't know how I'm going to save everyone..."  
  
"I've been through some dark times myself, B," Faith acknowledges, sliding her hands down to my shoulders and suddenly drawing me close. I smell the winter-fresh scent of her hair and the tang of her skin, hot from the blood pulsing just beneath. This feels like incest but I press closer and she holds me against her breasts, her mouth slick on my forehead. I know I will have a red stain there later, above my eyebrow, from her lipstick. "You've gotta pull through. I used to think I was fightin' for something, you know? But I never really knew shit. If you don't save us, no one else is gonna. But we'll be there to help you. I'll be there to help you. Like I didn't back then-not that it was exactly my fault. Since I had a gutted stomach, but whatever."  
  
"You gave me no choice," I whisper, my hands in her hair, just below the heat of her neck. "You tried to kill Angel."  
  
"That's where you always trip up, Buffy," she informs me, my name a shock on her tongue. "You think you don't have choices. You think that someone is deciding all of this for you. There are always choices. And they're yours to make."  
  
My breath drains from my body. Suddenly I feel very tired, as if I need to sleep for a long, long time.  
  
"I want to go home."  
  
She nods, and we leave the cemetery.  
  
Heading for home.  
  
If only I truly knew where that was.  
  
I stumble slightly as I walk down the stairs to the basement. Dust rolls up to meet me in thin, dry waves and I cough slightly. My mouth tastes of the greasy bacon Dawn had for supper. I went upstairs to say Goodnight to her and she pulled me close in sleep, kissing me briefly, smelling of sweet plums and rubber bands. I felt a rush of affection towards her in that moment and hugged her to my heart, forgetting about diving into white seas and being ripped from the earth so she could have a sister.  
  
The bottom step is caked with dirt and I cough again, the air so startlingly desiccated after the warm wetness of the spring night. Picking my way among messes of cardboard and shelves, I finally find what I'm looking for in a small jumble of shoe boxes. Kneeling down, my knees crack and I wince, thumbing through the papers encased in twine and old news clippings.  
  
My fingers finally dig out what I was looking for. An old bundle of photographs spill into my hands. Xander, Willow and I. Laughing on the yard outside of Sunnydale High, sunshine filling every shadowy space. My Mom, Dawnie and I, sitting in the living room, the shot blurred because my Mother had rushed to press the button and almost missed the couch when she sat down. My Father. I pass over that picture without really seeing it. Dawn as a baby, pink-cheeked and frowning. Black and white stills of my Grandparents, their faces young and smooth. Dozens of photos featuring my cousins, aunts and uncles, no one I really recognize or care about. They could be dead tomorrow if I don't save them.  
  
Angel and I. Taken by us at the mansion with a Polaroid camera Xander gave me for my eighteenth birthday. Lying on the bed, our arms entangled. I remember that moment so clearly. He kept saying he didn't want to be in the picture and I was calling him a "stupid baby" and he was laughing and it caught that exact moment. I stare at it numbly, his smile so unfamiliar, my smile even more so.  
  
Holding it to my heart, I sit for a long time, staring into space.  
  
"Buffy."  
  
I glance up as Wesley descends the stairs, clad in old jeans and a black sweater, his hair messy and his gaze confused.  
  
"What are you doing down here?"  
  
I laugh without humour. "Thinking about death, Wes. What do you want?"  
  
"You've been avoiding me," he comments, sitting down on the step and watching me with that intensity I have come to know very well.  
  
"Don't corner me, Wes."  
  
"Are you still sulking about Spike?" he asks seriously, but for a moment I think I detect a slight smirk at the edge of his mouth.  
  
"You shouldn't have made me-"  
  
"Spare me, Buffy," he cuts me off with a wave of his hand, tanned underneath the cuff of his sweater. "We must all make difficult choices. Yours aren't any more special than most."  
  
"Spare *me*, Wes!" I cry out, standing. "You have no fucking right to try and run my life!"  
  
He stands as well, anger alighting in his dark eyes. "You weren't doing a very good job of it, were you?"  
  
I'm as tense as a bowstring, my hands on my hips. "And what about your life, Wes? I don't see any good there. All I see is work. No friends, no family, no happiness... no life."  
  
His voice is harsh. "My life is the quest."  
  
"The quest?" I laugh at him. "The quest for what? You're a joke, you know that? We're all going to die. You can't stop it. What quest could there be?"  
  
"Aren't you connected to all of the Slayers past, Buffy?" he whispers. "Don't you feel them beneath your skin?"  
  
I try to breathe but my chest feels tight. "All I feel beneath my skin is you, Wes. And I want you out."  
  
He goes very still and I suddenly realize I've revealed too much. Said too much.  
  
"Is that all you want?" he asks hoarsely, staring at me.  
  
Just a step closer. A step and we would be touching. Reaching out with his hands, he yanks me against him, his kiss hot, his hands stinging as he shapes my breasts, his thumbs like burning brands over my nipples. I can't think and I'm murmuring his name over and over again, letting him press me against the wall, letting him pull up my shirt and bra without even undoing the clasp. Everything is spinning round and round, and I stare at a place above his shoulder as his tongue slides over my breasts, his fingers hooking into the leather belt-loops of my pants and tugging down. I run my hand down the front of his body, feeling muscle and hot skin, shaping the strength and size of him, my palm moving faster and faster in time with his breathing.  
  
"Buffy..." he groans against my neck, and I wind my legs around him frantically, steadying myself on his shoulders. My eyes and mouth open as he slides up and into me, the heat of his cock something I was not expecting. I feel every inch of him and my womb contracts, anxious for something warm and human. Something *alive*.  
  
I can barely believe that the swollen flesh inside of me is Wesley's. Gripping his shoulders, I grapple for purchase, my thighs spread wide for this rough invasion. He moves with a certain elegance that I appreciate, but there is desperation to his kisses that I understand more. He grasps the tangle of my hair and yanks my head back. I gasp and move faster, his jeans rough against the insides of my knees as I press up and into his sweaty embrace. His teeth are sharp against my lips and I think I taste copper as I gaze up into the ceiling and convulse.  
  
Wesley collapses against me and we pant for air. A smear of raspberry lip balm glistens across his cheek, and I can feel the burn of his come dripping down the insides of my thighs.  
  
"What..." shuddering, I try and get the words out; "what was that... what was that all about?"  
  
He shrugs, still holding me close. "I thought you needed it."  
  
I realize that I've wanted this since the moment I first saw him in that cemetery, looking nothing like the Wesley in my memories and smelling of Los Angeles and burnt cigarettes.  
  
"I did," I whisper. "Thank you."  
  
"You're welcome," he murmurs softly against my cheek, moving away.   
  
If I got pregnant, would Angel weep?  
  
I hope so.


	5. Chapter 5

Wesley’s hands shape my face, delve into the sunshine strands of hair falling across the pillows and travel down the world of my flesh, exploring the hills and shadowed valleys with his palms. He is sweating slightly, his scent filling my nostrils and making me whimper. I catch his bottom lip with my teeth, tugging as hard as I can without breaking the skin. He groans, shuddering underneath me, pulling me down onto his cock. It’s a sudden, almost painfully pleasurable intrusion, and I feel a scream building into the back of my throat. There can be nothing but this. His wet fingers on my nipples, my swollen lips seeking his, my pelvic bones grinding into him, both of us panting – Yes, Yes, Please, Yes – without any care for the end of the world or evil or demons lurking just beyond our reach.   
  
The hot flood of his semen burns and I do scream, letting Wesley swallow it with his mouth, drawing me alongside him and holding me briefly with strong arms and legs. He doesn’t force me to snuggle afterward and that I’m grateful for. But there are times when I move closer to him, pressing my cheek against the damp hollows of his chest, so I can hear his heart beating. It’s so novel, really, feeling that he’s alive. He’s the first since Riley who hasn’t made me colder just by being near. Who has hot blood beneath his skin. Who sweats against my breasts and makes them prickle with heat.   
  
“You’re alive,” I murmur drowsily.  
  
“So it would seem,” he answers and I hear the slight smile in his voice. “We’ve been doing this for a week and it just occurred to you?”  
  
“I’m used to cooler climates in the bedroom,” I explain, rolling over and taking him with me. He balances himself on his elbows and regards me with those dark eyes. Thank God I can see myself in them. They look too much like angel eyes. “You’re gonna have to shave soon.”  
  
In answer, he presses his chin to mine, rubbing slightly. I shudder and he whispers; “But you like it.”  
  
“Maybe I do. But it makes me all red. They’re gonna know.”  
  
“They already do.”  
  
Sighing, I shake my head. “How could they? We’ve been careful.”  
  
“Oh, absolutely. Fucking in the front hallway in the middle of the day when anyone could have happened upon us—“  
  
“That was your idea.”  
  
“You wanted it.” His palm glides between us, finding my sticky pink and pressing down.  
  
My knees spread wider. “Did I?”  
  
“Shall I remind you?”  
  
“I’m sore.”  
  
“You want that too.”  
  
“You’re right,” I gasp as he slides inside me. “I like the hurt.”  
  
He moves lazily, his nipples brushing mine with every stroke. “As your Watcher, that should worry me.”  
  
“You’re not my Watcher,” I murmur, grasping his back and forcing him to go deeper. “But I think you wanna be.”  
  
“Why would I?”  
  
“So you can order me around,” I laugh. “You hate not being in control.”  
  
He hooks his thumbs behind my knees and raises them up, resting them on his shoulders. I cry out as he begins to bore into me with something akin to desperation, his forehead slick with perspiration and need. I meet every thrust, my body trembling with tension and sharp, dizzy craving. I smell nothing but his sweat, taste nothing but his tongue, feel nothing but the heat of his cock and hear nothing but his groans. My world spins down as he thrusts one final time and I feel the tip of him touching my womb, making me convulse.   
  
We collapse onto the bed, our arms and legs entwined. He feels deliciously male. Hot and tangy against me, his breath stirring my hair and his palms heavy on my lower back. Sated and limp, I let myself be molded into him, feeling as if our bodies are cleaving together. I wouldn’t mind. It would feel like disappearing.  
  
“Are you worried, Wes?” I ask sleepily.  
  
“About?”  
  
“What’s going to happen to all of us.”  
  
“It wouldn’t pay to be worried.”  
  
“So sensible.”  
  
I can feel him smile briefly against my forehead. “It would benefit you to grow a sensible nature.”  
  
“I assume that was the Watcher speaking.”  
  
“I’ve had to burn that part of my life away.”  
  
“Is it hard? To pretend that such a big part of you doesn’t exist?”  
  
He shifts against me, reaching down and drawing the blanket up around us. “Not really. It’s a habit more than anything else. When I failed Faith- when I failed you, I simply turned myself inside out attempting to be different. I burned away the Council and I set the old Wesley Wyndham Pryce on fire.”  
  
“Ashes to ashes?”  
  
“Dust to dust,” he confirms. “Sometimes I wish I could speak with that voice again. Sometimes I yearn to be the one who cowers in the darkness and hides away hurt and pain.”  
  
My throat aches. “We were a bit mean to you back then.”  
  
“Nothing that wasn’t deserved.”  
  
“That isn’t true.”  
  
“Apologies aren’t necessary simply because we are sleeping together, Buffy.”  
  
“Want a side of bitter with that clinical, Wes?”  
  
“Its nothing you, yourself are not used to.”  
  
“What do you mean by that?”  
  
“Simply put? That you have closed yourself off quite efficiently from those around you,” he informs me, his hand stroking through my hair, letting it fall between his fingers and curl around his thumb. “Not that I blame you, really. It’s been rather a rough few years.”  
  
“That about covers it,” I respond dryly as I gaze out of the window, not really seeing the cold stars burning beyond the transparent shield of my curtains. If I squint and look closely, I can almost see Angel’s ghost, balanced on the edge of the sill, existing in the shadows of my life. “People get down on me for cutting myself off- but they can’t understand. No one gets what its like to be me. Not even Faith, though I guess she came the closest.”  
  
“And almost went crazy from it,” Wesley notes. “Which was another load for you to bear.”  
  
“Yeah,” I shrug. “But I can deal with weight on my shoulders. Its *my* load to bear, after all.”  
  
“You remind me so much of Angel,” he marvels quietly. “Though I suppose he’s happier than you are. Which is ironic.”  
  
“Happier how?” I inquire, knowing I don’t really want to know the answer to that question. Angelus and sex and things that are better shushed away. But how can I… when I can still see the ghosts of our former selves?  
  
Wesley tugs me closer, fitting his knee between the naked skin of mine. “He has many things now, that he used to think he never would.” His mouth twists. “Things that he imagines I wanted to take away from him. Connor. He has Cordelia, as well, though when they will work things out is anyone’s guess. He so yearns for normality. Perhaps he will find it with her, however much I doubt it.”  
  
Trying to swallow, I test the words on my tongue; “Angel and Cordelia?”  
  
“You hadn’t heard?” Wesley sounds faintly alarmed. “Oh, I rather thought Willow would have told you.”  
  
“No. Are they—together? Is that why Angelus—“  
  
“No, no,” Wesley assures me. “It was our idea to release Angelus. It’s quite a long and interesting story actually—“  
  
“Wes.”  
  
“Yes, sorry. The general gist of it is that we employed a shaman to fool Angel into thinking he was living his perfect day. When he woke up, he was Angelus. It was extraordinary magic. In all of the turmoil, he managed to have perfect happiness through illusion.”  
  
“I wonder what he dreamed of,” I say painfully.  
  
Wesley considers for a moment. “I would have no idea. However… he murmured your name near the end.”  
  
“He did?”  
  
“Yes. I remember him quite clearly whispering it before coming out of the illusion.”  
  
Images of sunny beaches fill my mind. “Thank you.”  
  
“For what?”  
  
“For telling me. Most… men wouldn’t be able to get past their own egos long enough-“  
  
He laughs faintly. “I don’t feel possessive of you, Buffy. There’s too much going on to imagine anything could ever be real between us.”  
  
“You don’t believe that,” I respond softly. “I think you always know the difference between truth and fiction, Wes. Just because there aren’t any promises doesn’t mean there can’t be something real. Promises are overrated anyway. They don’t count for anything in the end.”  
  
“What does count?” he asks quietly.  
  
I press my cheek to his and stare into his eyes. “Nothing. Nothing matters anymore.”  
  
“I can’t believe that,” he whispers. “There must be something left. I have to believe I’m fighting for an end that will justify all that has gone on.”  
  
“You’re not that naïve, Wes.”  
  
“Maybe I am.”  
  
“I don’t think so.” Threading my fingers through his hair, I pull him flush against me. “You live in this world. You know what’s going to happen.”  
  
“O brave new world?” he quotes with a slight quirk at the corner of his mouth.  
  
“That has such people in it?”   
  
“You read.”  
  
“Sometimes. I don’t think it will be brave. There won’t be room for that. I think people will be scared and I think a lot of them are going to die. Like they have been all week… how can I fight a war without soldiers, Wes? The Potentials are dying so quickly that I’m running out of room for them in the backyard.”  
  
“I don’t know,” he sighs, flopping back and resting his head on his arm. “It’s to the First’s advantage that it seems to be able to get to the girls through their dreams.”  
  
“How can I compete with Freddy Krueger?”  
  
As if he hasn’t heard me, Wesley continues; “I know it tortured Angel by revealing to him his fears. His deepest fears. That he would kill you. That he would be weak.”  
  
“He was weak,” I say derisively. “He was much weaker than even the Potentials are.”  
  
“You’re much too hard on them… and him, Buffy.”  
  
“Should I shield them, Wes? Pretend this fucking brave new world is sunshine and roses and Shakespeare? It’s not. It’s going to eat them alive if they’re not ready.”  
  
“I assume that was metaphorical?”  
  
“Don’t laugh at me.”  
  
“I wouldn’t dare.”  
  
“Yes you would.” I gaze in his direction searchingly for a moment. “You’re not afraid of anything, are you?”  
  
“Oh yes, I am,” he replies seriously. “You would be a fool to think differently.”  
  
“Never thought I was the foolish type.”  
  
“We all have our moments.”  
  
“Does he love her, Wes?”  
  
He doesn’t pretend to misunderstand me. “As a friend, yes. As a lover? I’m not sure. I’ve never paid much attention to things like that. Cordelia and Angel certainly share a bond. Whether it goes deeper than friendship… still remains to be seen. But they do care very deeply for each other. At times it can feel like they share a private bond that others are excluded from.”  
  
“Even you?”  
  
He pauses for a moment, pondering my question. “I had *my* foolish moments in my first days of working for Angel. I thought, erroneously, that he could do no wrong. That he was worthy of adulation. I suppose I have felt slightly jealous over the years as Cordelia and him have grown closer… but it’s more of a general disillusionment that I suffer from.”  
  
“He’s not perfect,” I say softly. “But it goes deeper than that. What happened between you two?”  
  
“Another long story,” Wesley shakes his head. “One I won’t go into. Suffice to say that I made a choice which I thought was right. To protect Connor, I kidnapped him- which resulted in Angel almost losing him forever. Things will never—it’s difficult to find forgiveness in a situation like that.”  
  
Feeling as if he’s given me only bits and pieces of a much larger picture, I whisper, “Are you and Angel buddies? Or is it permanent splits-ville for you two?”  
  
“We will never be friends in the same way. But it’s no great loss. I had a bad case of hero-worship that was better off cured by what happened.”  
  
“I think your pants are on fire.”  
  
“Sometimes lies are easier than the truth.”  
  
“Now *that’s* the truth.”  
  
Curling onto his side, Wesley touches my face. “Will you and Faith patrol later?”  
  
I pout playfully. “You’re not coming?”  
  
“Best to leave it to the two Slayers, I think,” he smiles briefly. “I’d probably get in the way. Screaming like a woman and such.”  
  
I groan. “I’ll never live that down.”  
  
“Best you don’t,” he responds, kissing me gently. “Your scorn was withering. I’d hate for it to return.”  
  
“Why didn’t you just tell me to fuck off?” I wonder aloud, moving closer to his warmth.  
  
He shrugs. “I had more important things to worry about at the time. Like what I was going to tell the Council about Faith. A rogue Slayer wasn’t something I had anticipated. Neither had I counted on another Slayer being obstinate.”  
  
“Good times,” I murmur drowsily. “Being mouthy and it never having any repercussions? That was bliss.”  
  
His arms coil around my body. “This might be closer.”  
  
My breath catches. “Wes…”  
  
“Shush. Sleep.”  
  
“I can’t. Patrol.”  
  
“All right. I’ll sleep enough for the both of us,” he mutters, lapsing into a doze almost immediately.  
  
I watch him tenderly for a moment, unwilling to leave the heat of the bed for the cool night. Snuggling in, I close my eyes, wondering if I could possibly skip patrol just for one evening. How many people would die if I didn’t go out? One, two?   
  
“Pretty cold.”  
  
My head snaps up and I glance towards the window. “Spike! What are you…?”  
  
“To be thinkin’ that way. Pretty cold of you. Isn’t one life precious, Summers? That’s what you always taught me.”  
  
I shiver suddenly. “Who are you?”  
  
Spike’s pale features and silver bright hair suddenly morph into darkness and shadows.   
  
“You haven’t guessed yet?” Angel’s voice is low and intense. “I’m your worst fear realized. I can kill people in their dreams and make them think it’s their deepest desire. I can make you weep with heartbreak and want to die so badly that you beg me for it—“  
  
“Spare me the commentary,” I snarl, ignoring the face this evil wears. “What do you want?”  
  
Angel’s face melts into Jenny Calendar’s. “What I wanted was for you to grow a pair and kill your boyfriend. But hey, I guess I’m over that. Its not like I had any big plans beyond happiness and dying in my old age.”  
  
“You’re not Ms. Calendar,” I return firmly. “So don’t try to fuck with my head.”  
  
“I know exactly how to fuck with your head,” the image of my teacher whispers sickeningly, sliding into my Mother’s skin without even a hint of visible transition. “Do you miss me, sweetheart? Because I miss you and Dawn.”  
  
“Stop it.” My lower lip trembles and I bite down hard, hating myself for showing weakness. “You can’t hurt me this way. I won’t let you.”  
  
“It’s not you we’re trying to hurt,” my Mother cackles. “Haven’t you realized that yet? Your choices are not the best, Buffy. But we’ll manage that soon enough. What I enjoy is how oblivious you remain to my true motivations. What I really want. How I distract you.”  
  
“Because distraction is key.” My Mother disappears and my stomach lurches. “It really is, B. You can’t lay the pretty maids all in a row if their protector is watching now, can you?”  
  
“Faith,” I whisper, vomit stinging my throat. Flinging back the covers, I look back briefly and see Wesley snoring peacefully. So unaware. Jesus. So unaware of this world we’ve all stumbled into. Throwing on my dressing gown and grabbing my only available weapon – a stake - I open the door, racing down the stairs, stumbling and cursing. I stub my toes on the bottom step, nearly slipping on the slick wood veneer of the front hallway.   
  
Nothing prepares me for the scene in the living room.  
  
Nothing.  
  
“Faith,” I say again, the bile filling my mouth. It tastes like acid and regret.   
  
Her arms are bent at an odd angle, as if they were broken in the fight. One leg is twisted up underneath her, and the gag snaked around her mouth was chewed through almost completely before she died. The blood from her split belly is clotted and a fierce red, staining her beautiful flesh brown. A knife lies beside her, the handle turned away from her palm. Her eyes are closed. Small mercies. Dropping to my knees, I stare and stare and stare, wishing myself a thousand miles away. Anywhere but in this moment in this night in this second in this life in this body in this mind—  
  
“I had to come back. To make you see.”  
  
I pretend for a moment that I don’t recognize the voice behind me. That I don’t know the nuances so well that it could be my own. That I haven’t heard it whisper love words in my ears. I pretend and I pretend, but it’s no use. Turning slightly, I stare back at Spike, murmuring; “Make me see what?”  
  
“That I love you.”  
  
“Did you do this?”  
  
He looks down at the broken body that was once my friend, my Slayer, my sister. That was once Faith. “Yeah.”  
  
“Do you know what I have to do?”  
  
He nods. “Yeah.”  
  
Tears slip down my cheeks so suddenly that I barely feel them. “Why, Spike?”  
  
“Voices told me to. Couldn’t get rid of them. Had to come back. And make you see.”  
  
“You gutted Faith like a fish to make me *see*?” I cry out, my voice breaking.  
  
“Yeah,” he whispers. “No one’s gonna survive this.”  
  
Standing, I reach out, grasping his hand in my own. “Do you love me?”  
  
His eyes glow bright and he lapses suddenly into tenderness. “You know I do, Summers.”  
  
“Then don’t look at me. Don’t look at me when I do this.”  
  
His gaze darts down to the stake in my hand. “Whatever you want, Buffy. Whatever makes it easier.”  
  
“Nothing could make this easier,” I murmur blankly, feeling as if I’m in a trance. Raising the pointed wood to his chest, I place it directly over his heart. “I think you have a bigger heart than me, Spike. I think this would have never worked.”  
  
“Whatever makes it easier,” he sighs, his eyes not meeting mine. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”  
  
“I know you are. God, so am I. So am I, Spike.” Suddenly catching him in my arms, I hold him as close as possible, absorbing every last breath, every last drop of humanity, every last bit of Spike that I can, until there is no more time and I have to use the stake and the tears are so salty and hot that I’m blinded and there is nothing but dust surrounding me and God, I’m sorry Faith and Please, I’m sorry Spike and Jesus, I wish things were different and I’m so, so sorry.  
  
Falling to my knees afterward, I grip Faith’s cold, hard, dead hand in my own, raising it to my lips and kissing it. My breath fans across her flesh, and I sit in Spike’s ashes, not really remembering. Not really feeling. There is nothing left. There can be nothing left after something like this. I was right. This is Hell. But maybe I only imagined Heaven. I can not picture- I cannot believe – that there is another world outside of this one.   
  
I barely hear the door opening.   
  
“Buffy?”  
  
Looking up, my eyes lock with the darkness and I smile, greeting him blankly; “Angel,” and the world begins to bleed into black and grey and shadows and I see no more.


	6. Chapter 6

I dream of Heaven.  
  
It is not one of the vague ramblings through my memory. The images rush around me, painfully sharp in their clarity. Angel’s tongue like a red arrow against my breasts, his voice spinning me into dizziness. My palms shaping the slopes and valleys of his back, tracing the faint inky smudges of the tattoo, falling like water over the indentation at his waist. Hot sand underneath my thighs, hotter sun burning my skin until it is flush and pink and new. His kisses, sweet as smoke and tasting of cemeteries and dust and everything that is better shushed away. Moist sky, thick with clouds and as blue as the water, the colours bleeding together at the edge of the horizon. Scratchy heat and swollen lips and his fingers inside me – Yes, Please, Yes, Yes – nothing between us but air, his sweat stinging my nipples, my words like thousands of bumble bees, invading our peace.  
  
“Angel.”  
(I won’t let them take you)  
“They’ll want me back.”  
(Let them try. Let them fight. I’ll fight harder)  
“Don’t let me go.”  
(Never)  
“They’re stronger. I can’t go back.”  
(Can you feel my heart beating?)  
“Yes. God, yes.”  
(I love you)  
“You’re not mine anymore.”  
(Can you feel my heart beating?)  
“Yes, God, Yes. This is the world I made, Angel. I can’t go back.”  
(This is the world we made)  
“Are you really here?”  
(I won’t let them take you)  
“My heart doesn’t beat.”  
(Only you can hear my heart. Only you)  
  
Awakening with a jerk as a cold cloth is smoothed over my forehead, I press my palms to my eyes, not surprised to find them slick with tears. Water drips down the sides of my face and I feel a hand clasp mine. The scent, the flesh, it is familiar.  
  
“Wes,” I whisper, without opening my eyes.   
  
“I’m here.”  
  
“Is Faith really dead?”  
  
His fingers tighten around mine. “Yes.”  
  
“Blunt till the end.”  
  
“I know no other way.”  
  
God, my head hurts. My chest feels as if it’s been split down the middle, un-zipping my guts and letting them spill down my front. “Could you *find* another way? I can’t breathe.”  
  
“Calm down.”  
  
“Spike.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
I feel a scream winding its way up to my throat, pressing on my tongue. “No. No. I killed him? No.”  
  
“Yes, you killed him. He murdered Faith. Remember that. It was the right decision, Buffy. It was the choice you had to make.”  
  
Cold alleys and colder crypts and the feel of him against me and his mumbles of love and his cigarettes and the way he smirked and Spike, Spike, I’m sorry and God, I already miss him. I feel as if my skin is stretched too tightly around my bones. As if my ribs are going to break from the pressure of my heart, drenching the room with blood. Wishing they would, I turn over onto my side, curling my legs up into my chest.   
  
“What do you know about my choices?” I murmur, bile flooding the back of my mouth. “You didn’t even know him. You didn’t love him. I’m going to be sick.”  
  
“Be sick then,” Wesley mutters. “I’ve had worse down the front of my shirt.”  
  
I choke back the vomit, tasting nothing but my own stomach acid. It burns. “Did you bury Faith?”  
  
Wesley pauses and regards me for a moment, his eyes inscrutable. “Angel did.”  
  
I remember suddenly, his appearance at the door, the world going shadowy and the brief glimpse of a shocked mouth and anguished gaze. “Oh.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“Yes. Oh. He certainly picked the absolute worst time to show up.”  
  
“Or the best. We’re in dire need of help now, Buffy. We’ve lost a valuable fighter in Faith.”  
  
“That all she was to you, Wes?” I ask bitterly, beginning to sit up. “A fighter? A cog in the war-machine? Well, fuck you.”  
  
His mouth twists derisively. “No, goddamn it. She was *my* Slayer. My responsibility and I failed to protect her. While she was downstairs getting her stomach slit, I was upstairs fucking you.”  
  
“So it’s easier to think of her as a nothing?”  
  
“It’s easier.”  
  
“Everything hurts.”  
  
His hand slides over the inner flesh of my wrist, where it’s white and thin and pale. “It will pass.”  
  
“Will it?” my throat feels as if I’ve taken a knife to it. “I held Spike while I staked him and he didn’t even struggle. I found Faith all broken and disgusting and she was still—she was still beautiful, Wes. She still looked so beautiful. It should’ve been me. I was the one who didn’t kill him before. I let him go and I didn’t even—I failed her.”  
  
“You’re right.”  
  
I nod numbly. “Thank you.”  
  
“For what?”  
  
“For not pretending with me.”  
  
“I’m just repaying you in kind.”  
  
“I know I hit you with the harsh stick back then, Wes—“  
  
“I was referring to the generosity you’ve shown me since I arrived here. You appreciate honesty and I appreciate you, however much your attitude gets on my nerves.”  
  
“So this is your fucked up way of expressing affection?” I respond wearily, reaching out and touching the stubble on his chin.  
  
He turns his head, pressing a swift kiss to my palm. “You could say that, yes.”  
  
I gaze towards the window, suddenly wishing for the feel of the night against my skin. “Did you put a marker on Faith’s grave?”  
  
“Angel made one.”  
  
“How long have I been asleep?”  
  
“Almost a day.”  
  
“What time is it?”  
  
“About five in the morning.”  
  
I consider for a moment. “What kind of gravestone did Angel make?”  
  
The barest hint of a smile alights on Wesley’s lips. “A cross.”  
  
“He has no sense of humour.”  
  
“Unfortunate.”  
  
“It should’ve been a stake.”  
  
“Perhaps you could suggest that,” Wesley whispers, resting an arm on the bed beside me. “You knew her better than anyone.”  
  
“No, I didn’t. Sometimes I thought I had her puzzled out, but she’d always surprise me. She didn’t open up to anyone but Angel.”  
  
“A common trend,” he remarks.   
  
I stare at him. “How close were you and him? Really.”  
  
“Too close, on my end,” Wesley shakes his head. “I think I had a bit of an unhealthy attachment to him. Thought he would walk on water, given half a chance. Since I betrayed him, since he tried to smother me and burn me from his life… we haven’t been close. We’ve just been pinging off each other. Not really touching or truly interacting.”  
  
“I’ve felt that way with Willow and Xander,” I admit. “It’s as if we’re not even friends anymore.”  
  
“Willow is not feeling altogether friendly towards you at the moment,” Wesley informs me gently. “So at least that hasn’t changed.”  
  
“Oh, yay,” I respond dryly. “. You’re so good at cheering people up. You should get a medal.”  
  
“As long as it’s shiny.”  
  
“What about gold?”  
  
“Might be a tad showy for me.”  
  
“Oh but ‘shiny’ is the epitome of class?”  
  
His smile slowly fades. “Are you all right, Buffy?”  
  
“No. I joke when I’m sad.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because I’m Chandler Bing. Using humour as a defence mechanism comes naturally.”  
  
“I’ll ignore the popular culture reference because I’m ashamed to report that I know of whom you speak. However, I would say that is more of a Xander Harris characteristic than one of yours.”  
  
“I don’t want to think about it, Wes.”  
  
“Faith and Spike are dead. Because of you,” he says directly. “But that’s no reason to stop living. It’s no reason to stop surviving. Because I will say, if I remember one thing about you besides your mouthy retorts, it is that you’re a survivor.”  
  
“And if I remember one thing about you besides your horrible taste in clothes, which by the way has improved, it’s that you never knew when to shut up.”  
  
“Evidently I haven’t changed.”  
  
I reach out for him then, pulling him to lie down beside me. “That floor looks like it’d be ouchy on the sore muscles.”  
  
His mouth touches my forehead as he gathers me carefully close. “My backside certainly isn’t thanking it for a comfortable stay.”  
  
“I have to laugh. Otherwise I think I’m going to start screaming.”  
  
“Scream all you like,” he returns quietly, his hands stroking up and down the trembling flesh of my back. “I don’t mind hearing it.”  
  
“It's me that doesn’t want to hear it,” I whisper, curling up beside him, ignoring the stinging in my blood. A different kind of scream. One that cries Angel’s name over and over. I can feel him in the house. So unbearably close. “Sleep, Wes. You look tired.”  
  
We say nothing more for an hour and soon, his breathing becomes deep and even, his body relaxing against mine. I untangle our arms and legs gently, pressing a quick kiss to the top of his head, where it smells wonderfully clean and familiar. Drawing on old jeans and a black t-shirt, I leave the room, tip-toeing downstairs. The house is hush with sleep and sorrow. I can hear muffled sobs and angry murmurs coming from Willow’s room but pay no attention to them, instead heading for the back door.  
  
The night is cool and sweet. My steps across the moist grass (cemetery) are measured and slow. I am walking over the Potential’s graves, but nothing stirs in me until I see the rough wooden cross, beautiful in its crude-ness, marking the spot where Faith’s body rests. I stare at it for a moment, not really thinking anything except that I feel as if I can still smell her. Tang and hot blood and the warm scent of her shampoo. I can still feel her. Heated flesh, flowing hair underneath my palms, her mouth as rich as buttered popcorn against my forehead. I can still hear her whispering in my ear; “What are you gonna do, B? Kill me? You’re not ready for that. You become me.”   
  
A twig snaps behind me.  
  
“Stealthy,” I remark.  
  
“I’ll have to work on that,” Angel replies, moving like a ghost as he comes to stand beside me. “How are you, Buffy?”  
  
“Peachy. You?”  
  
“Don’t.”  
  
“Go home.”  
  
“What?”  
  
I don’t look at him. He remains the same anyway. It’s me that keeps getting older. “Just go away. Before it gets you too.”  
  
“I have to help you,” he responds quietly.  
  
“You could have done that by staying in the first place,” I remind him acidly. “Now you’re just in the way.”  
  
“How can you say that?”  
  
“Easily. Want to hear it again? You’re in the way. Go home.”  
  
“Buffy—“  
  
“No. I don’t love you anymore. Forever means nothing. Go away.”  
  
His hands suddenly grasp my palms and he cleaves our fingers together. Startled, I look up and our eyes clash. God. I had forgotten.   
  
“What are you trying to do?” he asks me softly and I laugh.  
  
“It’s not obvious?”  
  
“I won’t let this thing hurt me.”  
  
“I can still taste Spike’s dust. Faith is lying under our feet. Do you think I care what it does to you?”  
  
Angel looks shaken but replies firmly; “Yeah. Yeah, I do think you care.”  
  
What’s the point in keeping this mask when he can see right through it? “Maybe you’re right. That’s why you have to leave. I can’t be responsible for you. I can’t feel you near and not want to protect you, Angel.”  
  
“Come here,” he murmurs, attempting to bring me closer.  
  
I resist at first, beginning to struggle when his grip doesn’t slacken. No, no, he can’t do this to me. He can’t force-- “Let me go!” I cry out, wrenching away as hard as I can and falling backwards. There’s an audible crack and I feel something sticky on the back of my head. Woozily, I glance up at my ex-lover, wondering what I’ve done and what he’s done and what I *did* to stumble into this Hell. When did we become these two people?  
  
“Buffy,” he says, pained, leaning down and scooping me up in his arms. Blood begins to slide down my hairline and I feel as if I’m going to be sick. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“Why did you come back?”  
  
Walking back into the house with me pressed against his heart (can you hear it beating? Only for you) he shakes his head. “I don’t know anymore. I came to help. I hoped I could.”  
  
“You’ve really done enough,” I say, with an insane urge to burst into hysterical laughter. My bones sting as he sets me down on one of the stools in the kitchen, his hands carefully parting my hair to probe the wound.  
  
“Not nearly enough,” he says softly. “I haven’t done nearly enough for you, Buffy.”  
  
“What are you trying to do, Angel? Play the hero? Trust me, you can’t fight this thing. You can’t run from it. Everything’s over.”  
  
“What happened to you?” he asks, looking as if his eyes have been forcibly opened.  
  
“I grew up. Are you done?”  
  
His fingers touch my face. God, I don’t want to see him. I don’t want to be reminded of everything I’ve lost.   
  
“I wish I was done with you. But I don’t think I ever will be.”  
  
I hop off the stool, disregarding the sharp pain slicing through my skull. “Wesley and I are sleeping together. He told me about Cordy by the way. Congratulations.” I glance at the clock with feigned interest. “Look at the time. I’ve gotta wake up Dawn or she’ll be late for school.”  
  
Satisfaction fills my belly like a warm rush as he simply stares at me, his eyes glowing bright. Tears, sorrow, agony, confusion? I don’t know. I don’t care. I leave him with those words.  
  
I don’t look back.


	7. Chapter 7

The sill of the window is cool and bright underneath my elbows as I lean against it, staring blankly out at the lawn and the stars and the moon, hanging heavy and low in the sky. If I squint, I can see its pregnant round-ness, its sculpted craters and surface covered in white silt and the residue of millions of years.   
  
When I was little, my Mother would read me fairy tales before bed. She’d tuck me in tight, with the blankets covering me neck to toes, and cuddle in beside me, opening the book wide so I could see the pictures. They were never Disney versions with Technicolor Aladdin’s and the word ‘blood’ taken out of the description of Snow White’s lips. They were real and terrifying and full of sugared houses and plucked out eyes. As she read I would imagine the Grimm Brothers, spinning the web of their stories as dark elves crept around them in the Black Forest. I remember so clearly my Mom bringing home a book of Norse legends one night, the pages crisp and shiny, their edges giving me paper cuts every time my fingers slipped. One tale depicted the end of the world. It was a slow, snowy death- full of icy lakes and a wolf named Skoll whose slavering fangs swallowed the sun, plunging the world into darkness.  
  
My Mom didn’t understand why the wolf made me weep and clutch at her, as I stared with wide, salty eyes at the inky blackness, at the halted rivers and bleak, star-less landscape. I didn’t understand either.  
  
Until now. I wonder, when the First kills us, when it is finally done with the teasing and swallows the sun—what will happen? How will I die? Will it hurt? Did it hurt Spike when I killed him—  
  
No.  
  
A scream stings my throat but I don’t let it out. Biting down fiercely on my bottom lip, I taste the welcome swell of coppery blood and turn to look at Wesley, asleep in my bed. His arm is flung above his head, and I can see the shadow of hair on his arm-pit, the pale skin of his inner wrist and the faint brown freckles on his bicep. His breathing is slight and un-even. He never sleeps well. Sometimes I wonder if he did before he came to Sunnydale.  
  
It has been almost a week since I murdered Spike and he murdered Faith and Angel came back into my life, making me wonder if he ever really left. I try not to think about it. Any of it. I don’t go into the backyard and I feel sick when I breathe in dust and I avoid Willow and I don’t talk to Xander and I haven’t even looked at Angel since telling him about Wesley and Cordelia and this is all such a mess. It would be easier without any of them here. It would be easier if I just had myself to worry about.  
  
Wesley’s drowsy voice shatters the stillness; “Aren’t you cold?”  
  
I smile at him. Easier to smile. “Why do you ask?”  
  
“Correct me if I’m wrong, as I’m not wearing my glasses,” he says softly with a slight grin tracing his lips, “but aren’t you naked?”  
  
“You’re not wrong.”  
  
“Come here.” His voice is low and husky and it makes me shiver.  
  
I crawl onto the bed, curling against him. His arm wraps around me and I feel the pressure of his fingers against the hollow of my lower back. “Did I wake you up? Sorry.”  
  
Wesley shakes his head briefly, his palm hot as it strokes my skin. “No. I was awake, watching you.”  
  
“Were you?”  
  
“You look beautiful against the moon.”  
  
“Corny…”  
  
“But very much the truth.”  
  
“You look beautiful to.”  
  
“Ah, so I wasn’t the only one who was watching.”  
  
“No.” I pause for a moment, trailing my hand down to his thigh. “Do you expect anything, Wes?”  
  
“Not at all.”  
  
“Except an all access pass to my pussy, right?”  
  
“That was crude,” he comments mildly.  
  
“Someone has to fill Faith’s trampy boots.”  
  
“You aren’t Faith. Don’t attempt to be, Buffy. You’ll only fail.”  
  
“I thought that would be under the category of ‘good thing’.”  
  
“Certainly.”  
  
I move on top of him, his flesh sliding against mine. He feels wonderful against me, hairy and hot and male. He feels *real*. I like the reminders that he’s human. That he always feels as if he has a fever and stubble grows on his face and he can’t see properly without glasses or contacts – that he doesn’t fear the sun or the cross and holy isn’t a forbidden word. I press my belly to his, his cock hard against my skin. The throbbing begins in my nipples and extends like lightening rods down to my thighs, filling me with electricity and making my cheeks flush.  
  
“Let’s face it, Wes,” I whisper, gently touching my mouth to his. “There can’t be any expectations because we’re all going to die.”  
  
“Then we should be with the ones we love,” he responds, returning my kiss and outlining the shape of my mouth with his tongue. It tastes like the chocolate ice cream he sat and ate with Willow after they all had supper. I watched him from my perch on the stairs, where I sit sometimes as they all interact and research and train.   
  
I look away. “Who do you love?”  
  
“No one.”  
  
“We’re in the same boat.”  
  
“I don’t believe that.”  
  
“I don’t love him anymore, Wes.”  
  
He doesn’t pretend. “Can you be sure of that?”  
  
I’m frustrated and feel slightly dizzy. “No. Yes. I don’t know anymore. But what good will it do to drag it all up again? Too much has happened to go back.”  
  
“But you won’t move forward,” he points out, catching my bottom lip between his teeth.  
  
I kiss him hard, and shake my head. “No point. The only thing ahead of us is war.”  
  
“We’re agreed. But you haven’t talked to him since he got here, Buffy.”  
  
“He told you that, huh? I thought you guys weren’t doing the manly bonding. That’s really not fair.”  
  
Wesley’s bitter smile is faint. “We don’t bond. But we do talk occasionally. He’s feeling a little strange about the idea of you and me together.”  
  
“Imagine that,” I return dryly.   
  
A smirk plays on the corner of his lips. “Your issues with Angel are astounding.”  
  
“So are yours,” I answer calmly.   
  
He blinks. “Your meaning?”  
  
“Why do I always smell alcohol on your breath?”  
  
He shifts uncomfortably beneath me and then looks straight into my eyes. “I have a drink now and then. It started when I lost my family—“  
  
“Your family?”  
  
“Angel, Cordelia and Gunn,” he explains without inflection. “I destroyed more than just my own life with that one action. Choosing the world over them proved too much for them to appreciate or understand.”  
  
“Do you regret it?”  
  
“Not at all.” His mouth twists. “I suppose it would be prudent to make like I regret or that I feel as if I was wrong to do what I did--- but if the information had been correct… the thing was, none of them were willing to make a difficult decision. To risk personal relationships for the safety of the world. It’s beyond my comprehension.”  
  
Acathla’s hungry mouth glows behind my eyelids for a moment. “I know what you mean.”  
  
“Do you?” although I know he must have read the Watcher Diaries, Wesley gives no indication he realizes what I’m talking about. For that, I’m grateful. I don’t discuss it with anyone. “Will you talk to him, Buffy? At least attempt to sort out your difficulties with each other before the inevitable battle. We all need to be fighting on the same side.”  
  
“That’s not the problem with Angel and me,” I deny, resting my forehead on Wesley’s shoulder and tasting the salt from his sweat.   
  
“What is the problem then?”  
  
“Everything else.”  
  
+  
  
The next evening, the cemetery is hushed without Faith. I walk alone once more, slipping into the old routine easily, avoiding the crypts (miss you. miss you so much, Spike) and the tree near where my Mother’s buried. My steps are slow and measured. I take my time, scanning the bushes and statues for any signs of demons lurking.   
  
“From beneath you it devours my ass,” I mutter to myself. “Not a vampire in sight.”  
  
“Maybe they’re as frightened as we are,” Angel says from behind me, his voice husky and slightly hoarse, as if he’s getting a cold. Which I know is impossible, but oh, it would be nice. Banality and bringing him chicken soup and flannel PJs.   
  
I turn around, steeling myself for the shock of his presence. “Doubting that. Though it’d be nice to see them running from something for a change.”  
  
“Running from something besides you, you mean?” he points out quietly and I allow myself a slight smile.  
  
“True. Why are you following me?”  
  
He goes still for a moment and then a shadow of a smile appears. “I know what you’re thinking.”  
  
“No you don’t,” I reply, shivering. “You never did.”  
  
He ignores me. “How have you been this week?”  
  
I decide to ignore him. “What have you been doing? I haven’t seen much of you.”  
  
“Worrying, researching,” he replies, falling into step beside me.   
  
It’s so familiar that for a moment I falter. He reaches out to steady me but I flash him one of my old-reassuring grins. “S’ok, I’m fine. Soggy grass makes for slippery feet. Anyway… I should say I’m sorry. For shocking you with the whole ‘Wesley and Buffy forever’ news.”  
  
His tone is blank. “It’s fine. I’m sure finding out about Cordy and I wasn’t exactly a picnic for you either.”  
  
“How is she?”  
  
Angel looks at me appraisingly. “Do you really care?”  
  
“I don’t care about much these days,” I acknowledge.  
  
“Why is that?”  
  
“You have to ask?”  
  
“I guess not. But even after… when your Mother died, Buffy and I came back from LA—you weren’t like this. Was it… was it Heaven?”  
  
The word stings and Oh God. I don’t want to talk about that. Not here. Not with him. “Partly. A pretty big partly, I guess. It’s everything… Angel, you haven’t been here. You can’t understand. Kennedy’s dead and Willow won’t talk to me. Xander’s towing the party line. Anya and Andrew are on the outskirts, just sort of floating into our lives and passing out again. Dawnie won’t stop getting sick and Faith— it’s just that you can’t understand. What I felt for Spike.” My throat tightens and my belly begins to ache. “You can’t know.”  
  
“Does that mean I can’t still love you and worry about you?”  
  
“No…” weary suddenly, I stop and look at him. I see him. Really *see* him and the tears begin to swell in my eyes. They burn. “Can you… can you just hold me?”  
  
Without a word, Angel’s arms open and I go to him, burying my face against the fabric of his raven black sweater, its wool scratchy and I remember, God, I remember. He smells like a thousand yesterdays that I’ve forced myself to forget. “I just want to sleep.”  
  
“Oh, Buffy…” he sighs, and gathers me closer.  
  
“I just want to sleep and wake up—I want to wake up and it to be the first day after my seventeenth birthday. I want to wake up to something other than pain. Do you understand? I want to feel that again. That—whatever we had before Angelus.”  
  
He’s trembling against me. The tremors go all the way into my bones, making me shake in agonized response. “You will have it again.”  
  
“No. I lost it once.”  
  
“That doesn’t mean you won’t ever get it back.”  
  
“It means I’m doomed.”  
  
Angel’s fingers touch my chin and he tilts it up, forcing me to gaze into his eyes. They’re too dark and I feel as if I’m drowning suddenly, my lungs collapsing underneath the strain of all these *years* between us. “It doesn’t mean that, Buffy. I know you. You’re just lost. But I’ll help you find your way back.”  
  
I smile sadly. “You can’t save my soul, Angel. I don’t need your help.”  
  
“Well, you’re bad at asking for it, that’s for sure.”  
  
“Wesley said something like that to me once.”  
  
He lets go of me so suddenly that I stumble. “It’s hard for me,” he says apologetically.  
  
“And you think finding out about Cordelia made my day?”  
  
“Do you love him?”  
  
“No. I care about him… but—well, do you love her?”  
  
“Yes. She was my best friend long before—well, it doesn’t matter now. She’s hooked up with Connor.”  
  
“Ah yes, the androgynous son. Willow filled me in before she started hating me.”  
  
Angel’s mouth twists. “I suppose he is a little pretty.”  
  
“Cordy must like girly boys,” I say innocently. “Not that I’m implying anything.”  
  
“I’m sure you wouldn’t *dream* of it,” he responds, raising an eyebrow. “I love who she used to be. What she’s become--- well, it’s a mystery to me.”  
  
“Do you want—“ I pause and then stop, glancing up at him. “Do you want your life to be with her?”  
  
He breathes in. “I lied to you, you know. Back then.”  
  
“Did you?” I whisper.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
The air around us is stifling. “Let’s go home.”  
  
After walking in charged silence back to my house, we open the door and pass everyone sleeping. On couches, chairs, the floor. Dawn is curled up on her side with a plate of food beside her, her fingers dipped in the pile of mustard. She is snoring and looks repulsive. I feel a rush of love for her and remove her hand from the condiment, wiping it clean on a cushion from the couch and taking it with me upstairs so I can throw it on the laundry pile. Angel watches all of this without speaking and follows me upstairs, pausing outside my door.  
  
“How can I protect them all?” I ask him wearily, thinking of the pretty maids all in a row. “I couldn’t even protect Faith.”  
  
“Faith was like a bomb waiting to go off,” Angel reminds me, shadows darkening his face.  
  
“No, Spike was. I saved him for selfish reasons.”  
  
“Did you?”  
  
“Yes. I was sleeping with him.”  
  
Angel just gazes at me for long moments, his expression one of total and utter disbelief. Finally he murmurs; “Is there anyone you aren’t sleeping with?”  
  
“You?” I mock lightly.  
  
“And the cuts keep on coming.”  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
He appears to consider something and then his fingers brush mine, like a moth’s wings. I should barely feel it. Instead, it sends a hot rush through my body, as if he has electricity beneath his skin. “When Willow returned my soul—she bound it.”  
  
I just look at him. “And in English that would mean?”  
  
“We could be having sex.”  
  
“Not even a blush. I’m impressed.”  
  
“Are you?”  
  
“Am I supposed to be jumping for joy?”  
  
“No. I don’t expect anything. I wasn’t even going to tell you.”  
  
“Then why did you? Cordy not putting out?” it feels as if acid is spilling off my tongue, I’m so shocked and confused. “That seems a little out of character for her.”  
  
“This isn’t about Cordelia, Buffy.”  
  
“Then what *is* it about?” I snap.  
  
He cups my cheek with his palm and I resist the stupid urge to croon and press closer. “You tell me,” he whispers and it slices straight to my trigger.  
  
“Don’t try that passive-aggressive bull shit with me, Angel,” I snarl. “ I’m past it. I’ve been through a lot. I need you to just—“  
  
He kisses me. For a second I consider pretending to be surprised and offended, but instead I let him draw me flush against his chest and press his hands against my back, my nipples beginning to swell angrily as they are abraded by his sweater. God. Dizzily, I sway more fully into him, moving my arms up to twine around his neck. My thumbs seek out the hair at his collar, where I remember it being soft and yet slightly prickly. I liked the juxtaposition back then. I still do. Funny the things you remember.  
  
His cock is already rising, full and throbbing against my belly, and I moan desperately. Angel, Angel. I need this. I need this just once more before I die. “We can’t do anything here—“ I shudder, taking his hands, not wanting to break contact. “Too many people. Outside.”  
  
Stumbling and tripping, we walk down the stairs, still kissing. I yank off his sweater, anxious for the feel of bare skin. He’s cool and it feels as if steam is rising off his flesh to meet my palms. Frosty kisses against my hot skin as the night rushes around us and we stagger out to the darkness of the front yard, the grass suddenly moist underneath my back. I can feel mud oozing around my knees but don’t care. Angel’s weight is on me, finally, and I can feel all of him, naked and bare and his tongue tastes like copper pennies – did he feed before coming to look for me? – and I wish I could hear his heart beating but this has to be enough. I don’t care what I’m doing or why I’m doing this. I can’t.   
  
His fingers shape my breasts and then his mouth is on my nipples and I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything more than this moment—my hand slips down and touches him, surprised at the strength and the cool, pulsing tip which is stained a purplish red in the moonlight. I had forgotten how alive vampires can be. I had forgotten they don’t need a heartbeat to be sometimes even more painfully human than humans themselves. Angel groans against my breasts, making choking sounds deep in his throat that I know—I *remember* - mean he wants to be inside me. I can’t blame him. I’ve wanted him to hollow out the space where my heart used to be (it died after Heaven, I think. I can’t feel it anymore) and crawl inside, to protect me. Keep me warm. Keep me from disappearing.   
  
Everything is spinning and I can’t see anything but his eyes, suddenly locked onto mine, as he dips his fingers below to touch the pink between my thighs—  
  
“No, please—just--- *please*…” I keen desperately and he answers this with another groan in my ear – so unfamiliar – it doesn’t sound like Angel… it sounds better- sliding up and into me in one sure, swift movement, his cock going deep and filling me up until I think that I will scream.   
  
“Scream, scream…” he mutters, as if he can read my mind and I pull him down, close, so my breasts are crushed by his chest and I can feel every inch of him inside me and against me. Angel, Angel. I don’t want to think anymore. I just want to feel this. My past and my present and my goddamn inevitable future melding into one, as he drives into me again and again. It hurts and I love it and my hair is sticking to my face in sweaty bunches but I just don’t care. I don’t care about anything but this. I feel myself begin to convulse and seek his mouth with my own, our teeth bumping and his lower canine slicing through my lower lip, spilling blood. His eyes go yellow as lemons and he comes inside me, the cold flood as salty as the ocean.   
  
There is no world, right now. With him, I’m not a vampire Slayer. I’m not a Protector. I’m not the one girl in all the world. I’m not a best friend, or even a lover. I’m not Buffy.   
  
With him, I have no name.


	8. Chapter 8

The grass is cool and bright beneath me as I lie flat on my back, staring up at the stars burning lifetimes away in their bowl of indigo silk. One cluster’s light is steady, the colour of it a deep, deep white. Much too intense too stare at for long. I think it is Spike. The other is erratic, flickering in and out in waves of golden yellow. That one is Faith. An ache sounds like a dark bell deep in my chest and I press trembling fingers to my heart, wishing it would still its frantic beating. My hair flows over my shoulders like rays of sunshine, each cutting their own path through my skin. The cool blades of grass tickle the backs of my naked knees and I glance up as Angel crosses the lawn towards me, holding an assortment of food and blankets.  
  
“The cavalry arrives,” I say dryly. “I’m not really that hungry.”  
  
“You’re skin and bone,” Angel points out, dropping down beside me and spreading out a crimson velvet blanket. He lifts me onto it with one hand, arching an eyebrow. “I haven’t seen you eat once all week.”  
  
“I’m dieting,” I respond without looking at him and turn over on my belly. The stars begin to hurt if I look at them too long. “I’m always dieting.”  
  
“Not how I remember it,” he says, stretching out beside me and balancing his weight on his elbow. “What happened to your vicious cravings for ice cream and Oreos at 2am?”  
  
“Went the way of the normal life,” I respond. “In its place arrived Dawn, a brain tumour and an army of Potential Slayers.”  
  
He doesn’t speak for a moment and then says softly; “Why didn’t you call me more often?”  
  
“You have your life, I have mine. It was too—there was too much messiness already without adding to it.”  
  
“If things were bad, you know I would have come back, Buffy.”  
  
I nod. “Maybe. Maybe not. But—it’s not like you could fix everything, Angel. You’re my ex boyfriend, not the Second Coming.”  
  
He smiles slightly, sadly. “Is that what we went through everything for? Just to become…”  
  
“I didn’t go through everything with Spike just to kill him,” I shrug. “But life’s a bitch.”  
  
“I never think of you as my ex girlfriend,” he muses, ignoring my mention of Spike. “There’s something vaguely, ‘I need therapy’ about that.”  
  
My laugh is genuine and it surprises me. “I wouldn’t call a Psychiatrist just yet.”  
  
His hand reaches out and he smoothes his palm down my shoulder. “No?”  
  
“No,” I answer, shuddering faintly under his touch. “Maybe we went through it all to get to this place.”  
  
“Where are we?” he inquires, his voice just above a whisper.   
  
“Together,” I whisper, sliding closer to him. “Just for tonight.”  
  
His eyes darken and his palm slips down to skim the sweaty contours of my ribs and belly. The tips of his fingers trace the framework of my bones, as if to memorize them in his mind. He outlines the undersides of my breasts, the areola of my nipples, the breastbone between where my heart pulses beneath the skin, the delicate sides where my waist dips in, the slight curve of my hips and the arc of my pelvic bone, where it bends down towards golden hair and secret pink. I’m trembling and dizzy, tears brimming behind my eyelids as he kisses me, his lips cool and bittersweet.  
  
I remember him and I remember Heaven and sometimes after dreamy sleeps, I remember that day of sunshine and chocolate, but it flickers away before I can snap my jaws around it and so it remains trapped, somewhere in the regions of my heart.. I feel nothing but salt and wet and throw my head back, trying not to scream.  
  
“I want you to,” Angel says smoothly, looking up. Our eyes lock and I stare at his slick mouth, whimpering. “I want you to scream.”  
  
“I can’t—“ I moan, breaking off suddenly as his tongue slams all of the way inside me, hot and sure, like the red arrow of my dreams.  
  
I scream.   
  
I scream, and he slides up my body, his skin melding flush with mine as he bores into me, his cock full and throbbing, like a second heartbeat within my body. His hands cup my face as he moves slowly, our pelvic bones grinding together almost painfully. I like the hurt. I like feeling I’m alive. His skin is cold and his sweat like liquid frost. Sparks explode behind my eyes as the pressure builds and his fingers slip down, making me go over the edge. If someone tried to tell me there was a world outside of this, I wouldn’t believe them. I wouldn’t want to believe it.   
  
Angel gasps as he comes, his eyes glowing as bright as they did before the sword and the lonely summer. I close my eyes tight, shushing the image away, where it has gone for years. Lost, in the bowels of my memory, where I have put inconceivable things. The knife in Faith’s stomach as her blood spurt over my hands, staining them a deep, dark pink. Giles’ papery white skin as he looked at Jenny Calendar’s grave. Wesley almost choking on air as I casually told him his family was dead. Willow’s hair, gone black as soot as she smiled at me, smiled before she tried to kill me. Dawn cutting her own wrists to see if she would bleed green. Spike’s hands sliding up the sides of my thighs as he whispered in my ear and I watched my friends, dancing and laughing on the floor of the Bronze.  
  
Waking up in a coffin and remembering Heaven, with the echoes of our voices still in my ears—I won’t let them take you, I won’t let them take you, No… -- clawing at the dirt of the grave and seeing my name etched in stone.  
  
Everyone has things they’d rather forget. Maybe I just have more than most.  
  
Angel collapses next to me, drawing me against him. Our palms mesh and our fingers interlock. He begins to measure the size of my hand against his and I feel uncomfortable, attempting to pull away.  
  
“This can’t mean anything.”  
  
“It doesn’t have to,” he assures me calmly, not letting go of my hand.  
  
“It doesn’t?” I ask, amazed.  
  
“No, I’m not putting any pressure on you.”  
  
“What a gentleman,” I reply blankly, not sure how to handle this.  
  
“I haven’t… I haven’t done right by you in a long time. I want to—“  
  
Suddenly I see where this is going and cut him off; “Don’t try to make it up to me, Angel. Too much time has passed. We’re different people. I mean, I know how to do my taxes now. You’re the owner of a business—“  
  
“Does that mean we can’t work?” he asks softly and I turn my head away.  
  
“I can’t worry about that. I don’t have time. All I can think about is the First.”  
  
“But you had time to fuck Wes?” he inquires, his tone mild.  
  
“Don’t forget you and Spike,” I return lightly. The sick feeling in my belly won’t go away. “I’m a busy girl.”  
  
“Don’t.”  
  
“Sorry,” I shake my head. “My sense of humour seems to rear its inappropriate head in these kinds of moments.”  
  
A half-smile graces his lips and he reaches out, his fingers tugging the tangle of my hair and brushing it away from my face. “I know. Look, maybe we shouldn’t talk about this now. It’s still fresh.”  
  
“We could talk for thousands of years,” I respond sleepily, staring at him, “and it wouldn’t do any good.”  
  
“Do you love me, Buffy?”  
  
I just look at him for a moment. “Do you love me?”  
  
His eyes burn and feel like fire. “Tell me you love me.”  
  
An involuntary tremble ripples through me. “You asked me that once before—do you remember? God, it seems like a long time ago. I love you. I don’t trust you.”  
  
“How can you…”  
  
I turn over on my belly and begin to play with the grass just beyond the blanket. The air is chilly on my naked back and I feel goose-bumps rise all over my skin. “How do I know… how *can* I know that you won’t pick up and leave town if you’re feeling a little depressed?”  
  
His gaze is incredulous. “I… I can’t believe you would say that. A little depressed—“  
  
“I’ve lost too much Angel,” I cut him off sharply. “I can’t lose you again.”  
  
“You won’t.”  
  
The firm, sure words scare me. I shake my head.  
  
“Don’t make any promises. Just stay and fight. That’s all that I ask.”  
  
His arm reaches out and pulls me close. Cuddling me against him, he kisses the top of my head. “I will.”  
  
“All right. You know… I wonder why you make me feel safe.” My laugh is wry. “Logically I know there isn’t a safe place on this planet.”  
  
“Logic?”  
  
I hear the smile in his voice and shake my head. “Not something I’m prone to use.”  
  
“You don’t give yourself enough credit.”  
  
“Maybe I’ve given myself way too much. I just get…I feel superior sometimes. Like Will and Xander can’t possibly know—what I go through. What I have to do. What it feels like to be me.”   
  
“They can’t know.”   
  
“But they fight. They fight voluntarily. I’m—this is a duty. They do it because they feel its right.”  
  
“Buffy—“  
  
“And it’s not even just that. I shut everyone out. I don’t even mean to. But everything keeps spinning down and I feel like its going to crush me.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“The world. I have to save it. How can I? What do I know that makes me so special?”  
  
“You’ve done it before,” he reminds me. “You’ll do it again.”  
  
“By fighting something I can’t even touch? Angel, I think with my hands. This thing is all about the mind fucking.”  
  
“I remember,” he says without inflection and a swift surge of guilt rushes through me.   
  
“I’m sorry,” I answer softly and he starts in surprise.   
  
“For what?”  
  
“That I couldn’t… that I didn’t understand. I do now. Now that I have ghosts of my own.”  
  
He’s silent for a moment, his hand stroking up and down my back. “Do you see your Mother?”  
  
“Sometimes. She tells me the sun’s going to go down. Sometimes I think I see her on the living room couch. Sometimes I think I see her drowned in the bathtub. And she’s always crying. Sick, isn’t it? I hate that house.”  
  
“It’s haunted.”  
  
“I know. My Mom, Tara… Dawn’s blood is still on the living room carpet from when she cut her wrists. Faith… Spike. Did I tell you I threw up when I found my Mom?”  
  
His arms tighten around me and he tilts my head up, making me look at him. “Yes.”  
  
“I did. It was clear. Looked like milk,” I pause and my mouth twists in bitter reflection. “It should have been blood.”  
  
Angel’s eyes are sad. They look old. “You weren’t to blame.”  
  
“I know. Neither were you.”  
  
He recoils. “I don’t want to talk about him. Don’t say that.”  
  
“I will until you hear me,” I reply, pressing a kiss to his mouth. He tastes like cream and copper and lemons. Yawning, I glance towards the sky. “I’m so sleepy. We’d better get inside. I don’t want to wake up next to a pile of ashes tomorrow morning.”  
  
“I can smell the dawn before it comes.”  
  
“No,” I whisper, standing and pulling him up beside me.   
  
He looks at me, naked against the stars and pauses for a moment, his finger tracing an errant tear on my cheek. “You’re beautiful, Buffy.”   
  
I laugh, afraid if I don’t I might weep again. Reaching up, I pull him close. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”


	9. Chapter 9

Angel’s chest is cool and brilliant against my cheek, and I shift on our bed of blankets, staring up at the basement ceiling. Streaks of damp flood the walls, staining the concrete a dark grey. It smells of wet dust; the air clammy with moist, humid air. Angel and I crept down here last night, fucking up against the door just as we stepped through it, his kisses like tiny frost-bites on my neck and shoulders. Afraid of sunlight glimmering through the tiny windows, I insisted we sleep in the far corner, knowing all too well that Wesley was probably in my bed. Waiting? I didn’t know. I still don’t.  
  
I glance down at my arms and breasts, attempting to ignore the bones pressing up from underneath my flesh, their outline clearly delineated. Red and purplish bruises cover my inner wrists and I flush, remembering Angel’s harsh grip, his fingers smoothing mine even as he grasped me tightly, going deeper. My thighs are sore. Between them feels open and stinging and I reach down to touch my swollen, salty flesh, remembering Angel’s tongue (red arrow) and his cock and his palm, pressing down hard, making me scream.   
  
I’ve wanted to scream so many times in my life. Oh God, how I’ve wanted to. And last night, I did, I did, as my throat bulged with veins and the blood surged to my face, heating it with its crimson glow and I let my mouth open, releasing the long howl, I knew myself. I knew myself in a way I haven’t allowed for years.  
  
Turning over onto my belly, I slide my hand absently up Angel’s chest, enjoying the bumps and valleys, the smooth skin, the brown areola of his nipples, the soft hair under his arms. I press my face to his neck, burrowing in close.   
  
I dreamt of Heaven again last night.  
  
But it was different. The sun was too hot. I could feel its burn sweeping down my back and shoulders as I tried to snuggle in close to my lover, the sand scratchy on the front of thighs. Angel’s arms were tight around me and his slight finger-nails created tiny half-moons in the dip of my waist. He wasn’t saying anything, wasn’t even whispering; just burying his face in the soft place behind my ear, his face hidden by my hair.   
  
The sun turned red and it swelled angrily, falling down to edge of the horizon, staining the water crimson, so it appeared as if Angel and I were lying beside a vast ocean of blood. I wasn’t crying out. I was whimpering and clutching and I could feel his skin crumbling beneath my finger-tips.  
  
“You can’t—“  
(I tried)  
“Oh God- please.”  
(I’m sorry)  
“You said you wouldn’t let them.”  
(I tried)  
“You lied to me.”  
(I’m sorry)  
“This is my world. I can’t let them take it away. I can’t go back. Why didn’t you— why didn’t you hold tighter?”  
(I tried)  
“I love you.”  
(I’m sorry. Buffy, god, I’m sorry)  
  
It wasn’t just his skin that crumbled then. The world fell apart in a mass of teeming waves and white eyes, glowing in the darkness. Little snatches pulled at me—Willow vomiting a snake, its coiled tail whipping out of her mouth – Spike wailing in the shadows – Xander reading to Dawn in the sunlight – Giles on a field, his hand gripping a shiny bottle of vodka – but there was no Angel, no Angel. I was ripped away, dirt and maggots and dung-beetles suddenly drowning me, healthy tanned flesh replaced with rotted skin and ghastly, grinning teeth. I dreamt of Heaven, and how it spit me out; returning me to a world I never really liked in the first place.  
  
Angel murmurs in sleep, gathering me close, his eyes opening slightly. “Morning.”  
  
“You’re here,” I reply.  
  
His expression darkens somewhat. “Why wouldn’t I be?”  
  
“You have a habit. Of disappearing before I wake up and getting yourself into trouble.”  
  
His faint smile echoes my own. “Bad habit.”  
  
“I’ll say.”  
  
“One to break.”  
  
“Definitely. And quick.”  
  
Pulling me up, so I’m balanced on his chest, he cups my face, drawing me close for a kiss. “What do you want, Buffy?”  
  
Surprised for a moment, I regard him seriously. “Why do you ask?”  
  
“You just look… you look lost now. Before, when we—when I knew you… you always seemed as if you knew where you were going. What you wanted. Now… I don’t know.”  
  
I shrug, almost dislodging myself from my perch. “I don’t want anything.”  
  
“Liar.”  
  
“My pants are definitely on fire,” I reply dryly. “I want—I want peace.”  
  
“I can’t ever give you that.”  
  
My chest begins to squeeze tight. “I know.”  
  
“If I could—“  
  
“What? You’d drive down here tomorrow and marry me? Set me up in a nice house and get a nice job? What would we do then? Have children? Go out for Sunday dinners with our friends?” My voice cracks suddenly and I glance down, angry. “It’s a fantasy – it’s even a nice one, but it’s not real. Not for us.”  
  
“Buffy…” his voice is low, intense. “I wish things were different.”  
  
“I wish you weren’t fucking Cordelia. I wish my Mom was alive and that Spike was upstairs and that I could talk to Faith if I wanted to. No one gets the things they wish for.”  
  
“I’m not fucking Cordelia,” he responds. “Not in the literal sense, anyway.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
He sighs. “What do you want me to do? Wave around a magic wand and make your life better? I can’t do that, Buffy.”  
  
I look at him bitterly. “You’re always saving souls. Save mine.”  
  
“I don’t need to,” he answers swiftly. “If there’s one thing I know about you, Buffy, it’s that your soul never needed saving.”  
  
“Is that why you left? Because you couldn’t help me? Needed to be of use to someone, Angel?”  
  
He sucks in an un-necessary breath and looks closely at me. “Why are you trying to get under my skin?”  
  
“Because you’re under mine,” I whisper fiercely. “Every day. I feel you. Prickling away at me and it hurts and I hate it—I should have forgotten all of it by now. I should have put it away—but its there… I can’t escape it. God, do you think I want this? Do you think I want to be this messed up? I don’t want to save the world. I don’t want to be Dawn’s Mother. I don’t want to love you… I just want peace. I *need* peace.”  
  
Angel’s hands grasp my arms, and he flips me onto my back, settling on top of me so suddenly that I barely have time to draw breath. Feeling at a disadvantage, I gaze up into his eyes, feeling my own sting with furious tears. His weight presses me down into the cushiony velvet of the blankets, and his chest slips and slides over my breasts, his sweat like tiny icicles, dripping around the curve of my nipples.  
  
“Want me to end it right now?” he growls next to my ear and I start in shock. “Want me to finish what I started before I left? Because I can, Buffy. I’m not the same guy that loved you back then. I’m not even the same guy who came to your Mother’s grave and held your hand. I’ll do it. I’ll kill you and give you fucking *peace* if that’s what you really want.”  
  
“Angel…” I murmur helplessly.  
  
“If you don’t want to fight this battle, Buffy—I’ll bite down on your neck and I will drink the blood from your veins. I can still remember how it tastes- it kept me awake for so many days after I left—the taste of you. Sometimes I felt like screaming because all I could taste, all I could fucking *feel* was you. Everywhere. In my throat and in my gut and it was all I could do not to drive back here and finish you off.”  
  
His tongue rasps against my throat, near the faint edgings of the scar, and I moan, clutching his back. I can feel his cock rising up onto his belly, brushing the lower swell of mine. “Angel…”  
  
“When you died, I burned you away. I made believe you didn’t exist, because if you weren’t there—it couldn’t hurt. It brought me peace. Yes, I looked at Cordelia. I loved her and I forgot you and it felt so good for a long time. It felt like peace. But I don’t want that anymore.” His voice is barely a whisper. “I don’t want that peace or that emptiness. If you do, I can’t blame you. I can’t blame anyone for wanting Heaven. Not as though Hell is a fun trip full of sweetness and light. Do you want it, Buffy? I’ll end it right now and you won’t ever have to be here again. They’ll let you rest.”  
  
“I…” tears spill down my cheeks and I press my mouth to his, biting down hard on his lower lip. “No. Not right now. I don’t want to rest right now.”  
  
He doesn’t say a word, just snarls, driving inside me in one quick movement. I feel the full force of his cock, all the way to the mouth of my womb and can’t even make a sound, the pleasure-pain momentarily striking me dumb. His hands grip my face and he continues to slam into me, his eyes boring into mine. My legs open, wider and wider, as I begin to pant, sweaty tangles of hair clinging to my forehead and cheeks, until he wipes them away. There is a tenderness in that small gesture that reassures me and silly tears spring to my eyes once more, sending me crashing over the edge, the convulsions rocking my body with bone-numbing force. Angel’s come drenches the insides of my thighs with cool saltiness, and he collapses beside me, his eyes closing almost immediately.  
  
I try to lie still for long moments, trembles rippling through my muscles every few seconds, until finally they quiet. Sitting up, I look down at my sleeping lover, pressing a kiss to his mouth.  
  
“I don’t want to rest just yet,” I whisper, almost to myself, and stand, my legs shaking. Using one of the spare blankets, I wipe between my legs and dress quickly in my clothes from the night before. Making sure Angel is still in the corner, away from any potentially harmful rays of sunlight, I ascend the stairs. Dawn is still asleep in the living room with Rhona, Willow and Xander. My chest aches at the sight of them as I make my way into the kitchen. I make a pit stop in the bathroom, washing my hands and face thoroughly with soap, suddenly and surprisingly ravenous.  
  
Wesley leans against the counter in the kitchen, sipping a cup of coffee, dressed in jeans and a black sweater. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, simply regarding me over the rim of the cup, his eyes betraying nothing.  
  
“You’re up rather early,” he finally greets me, non-commitally. “Hard patrol?”  
  
“Not really.”   
  
“Coffee?”  
  
“Thanks.” I accept the mug of steaming beverage and take a long sip, the rich flavour calming me.   
  
“You didn’t come back. I was worried.”  
  
“Were you?”  
  
He raises an eyebrow. “Yes. I thought we had a date.”  
  
“A date?” a faint smile touches on my lips and then retreats. “That sounds a little quaint for you, Wes.”  
  
“Sorry. Perhaps I should attempt to sound manlier about it?”  
  
“No. It wouldn’t suit you.”  
  
“Should I be offended?”  
  
I laugh softly, leaning on the counter opposite him. It hurts the thin skin on my elbows, so I rest lightly. “I never dish up insults before 7am.”  
  
“Ah,” he sips his coffee and then touches my arm. “Are you all right?”  
  
“I slept with Angel,” I say bluntly. “I’m sorry.”  
  
His expression doesn’t change, but he withdraws his hand. “I know.”  
  
“You do?” I ask, astounded. My eyes widen. “Did you—did you see us?”  
  
He laughs slightly. “No, nothing quite so horrifying. I can smell you. I know—well, I know what you smell like after fucking, Buffy.”  
  
Shifting, I realize I can smell *myself* and blush. “Well, this is going on my ‘top ten embarrassing moments’ list.”  
  
Wesley’s smile is brief. “You shouldn’t be sorry, anyhow. It’s… it’s a bad time. We all make mistakes.”  
  
I gaze at him uncertainly. “I wouldn’t call what I did with Angel a mistake, but—“  
  
“Not you and Angel. You and I.”  
  
Involuntarily, I step towards him. “Don’t be noble-guy, ok? It doesn’t suit you.”  
  
His fingers graze my cheek. “We aren’t in love, Buffy. There’s no need to make a fuss about this.”  
  
“Were you ever in love with anyone, Wes?”  
  
He looks away, towards the window. Maybe in the direction of Los Angeles, I’m not sure.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
It stings. The word. “So you know.”  
  
“Yes,” he agrees.  
  
“Who was she?”  
  
Wesley looks thoughtful and then shakes his head. “There are two. One is dead. The other—well, she might as well be, for all the chance I have with her.”  
  
“Is she—is there something wrong with her?”  
  
“What do you mean?” he asks, startled.  
  
“Well… I don’t know,” I reply, only slight embarrassed. “From where I’m standing, the view’s pretty good. And I’m thinking she must have the same one.”  
  
“She’s frightened,” he answers, his voice softening infinitesimally. “Her name is Fred. She likes science—and books. I suppose you could call it a marriage of the minds. But she— she’s very beautiful. Very fragile. She needs protection. She needs someone unlike me.”  
  
“You’re pretty handy with a weapon.”  
  
He doesn’t appear to hear me and continues to stare out the window. “I don’t know what she feels.”  
  
“How did the other one die?” I answer, realizing I phrased the question with my typical lack of tact but unable to care. Wesley can handle it, I know.  
  
“Angelus,” he responds succinctly and my hand presses on my belly, as it begins to roil.  
  
“God, I’m—“  
  
“Don’t say you’re sorry, for heaven’s sakes.”  
  
“I am.”  
  
“Why should you be? We brought him out. We chose to do it. I might as well have sealed Lilah’s grave with my own hands.”  
  
“You can’t really believe that,” I say softly and he arches a brow.  
  
“Didn’t you?”  
  
My stomach lurches again. “You mean Jenny Calendar?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
I’m silent for a moment, recognizing the truth staining his words. “Yes. I still do.”  
  
“I assume my point is taken, then?” he leans over and kisses my forehead, his lips hot from the coffee and slightly bitter.  
  
“Don’t get smart with me, Wes,” I return, attempting a grin.   
  
“We’ve got a lot to do today,” he responds, reaching over and taking my hand, his thumb tracing circles on my palm.  
  
“Besides the usual?”  
  
“Samara committed suicide last night.”  
  
Shocked at his sudden words, I reel backwards. “Which one was that? God, never mind. What happened?”  
  
“What always happens?” he inquires, his voice husky. “The First got to her before we had a chance to. No one knows. I buried her earlier this morning.”  
  
“We’re running out of room,” I murmur wearily. “Poor girl.”  
  
“It’s coming down to the wire, Buffy,” Wesley informs me, his voice urgent. “You must realize that. The First is destroying everything around you, carefully. Quite methodically actually. We must find it somehow. There’s nothing else to be done. If we don’t, you’re going to be left alone to face it.”  
  
Panic snaps its jaws around me and I feel sweat break out on my skin. “I can’t let it have anyone else—“  
  
“Relax,” he replies infuriatingly. “Research. Anything to ferret out its hiding place. It must take corporeal form sometime. There are only so many disguises and mirages it can cower behind.”  
  
“I can’t wait anymore.”  
  
“You must learn to wait.”  
  
“I have. You don’t know how long I’ve waited.”  
  
His tone is sardonic. “Something tells me we’re not on the subject of the Hellmouth any longer.”  
  
“Subtext is everything around here,” I shrug, and drink the rest of my coffee, setting the mug down with a clatter.   
  
“Not with me.”  
  
“You don’t want to pretend?” I ask, already knowing the answer.  
  
“No.”  
  
“I will always love Angel. I can’t get rid of that.”  
  
He gazes at me closely, and then clasps his hands loosely around my waist. “Do you want to?”  
  
My mouth twists with a bitterness I’m not even truly aware of. “Oh, yes, I want to. I’ve tried to get rid of him for years. I stuck a sword through his heart to try to make him go away. I killed myself, and I’ve thought it was over so many times. I never asked for it. But its there.”  
  
His fingers clench tightly and his face is intense. “Did I ask for brutal honesty?”  
  
“I don’t know any other kind. I learned from you, after all, Mr. King of Pain.”  
  
“I suppose you’re right.”  
  
Drawing me close, he rests his forehead on my shoulder. Every line in his body is exhausted and bent, and I suddenly realize how much stress he is under, how much emotional pain must be going on behind the calm exterior. Sometimes I think I’m blind. Sometimes I think I made myself this way.  
  
I cup his face with my warm palms and kiss him softly. His un-shaven chin scrapes mine and I move closer, into his embrace.   
  
“Was that you being truthful?” he asks quietly.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Do you mean it when you kiss me, Buffy?”  
  
“Do you mean it when you kiss me?”  
  
His eyes gaze into mine. I don’t know what he’s searching for. “Answering a question with another question is a standard avoidance tactic.”  
  
“I am woman, hear me avoid.”  
  
“Your sense of humour is irritating.”  
  
“Sorry, but your lack of one tops the charts.”  
  
He grabs me, yanking me close with a strangled laugh. “I really want to f--- I would really like to make love to you right now.”  
  
My breath hitches. “People are—“  
  
“I don’t care.”  
  
“Wes—“  
  
The phone blares, shattering the moment between us. I feel sweaty and anxious, pressing a quick kiss to his nose and pulling away to pick up the receiver. (I remember when it would be Spike-- Meet me at the crypt, pet—but there is no one there anymore).  
  
“Hello?”  
  
“Buffy?”  
  
“Giles.”  
  
“Buffy. Get to the High School immediately.”  
  
“What?” my panic is immediate.  
  
“I’ve had word from a colleague of mine. The Hellmouth is stirring. Already the armies are advancing. The First is getting ready to attack, Buffy.”  
  
“Not… not now! Now? I’m not ready—“  
  
“Do you think that matters?” his voice is a whip-lash, cutting me off. “Get ready. Take all of the weapons. I will meet you there. And Buffy?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“The First will only take corporeal form when shown his or her Kindred. That is the information I was given. Use it wisely.”  
  
My throat closes over and for a moment I can’t speak. “I love you, Giles. I’m sorry—“  
  
“Don’t be silly. I love you. Get to the High School immediately.”  
  
He hangs up, and I’m left staring at the receiver.  
  
“What’s happening?” Wesley inquires, his eyes grave.  
  
I look at him, and at Dawn, Willow, Xander, the Potentials, are trooping down the stairs, their eyes drowsy. I glance at the basement door as it opens, and Angel emerges, rubbing his hair.  
  
I look at them and I want to weep. But this isn’t the time. I know. I know the weeping will come later.  
  
“No more waiting.”


	10. Chapter 10

Stainless steel glimmers against my fingers, the tips of the swords like tiny pinpricks along the passage-ways of my memories. I touch them all with my nails, investigating the edges and gleaming blades. Long, thin, black and silver. They feel cool as frost but familiar, like old friends. I smile as I touch the golden whorls of one handle, its edges sharp. It reminds me of going to kill Angelus (could never think of him as Angel - made it seem like murder) and the way I grasped the sword with one, steady hand. (Kick his ass, Buffy. Make us proud) It was sticky on my palm and felt like there were no more questions to be asked, no more answers to be given… no more excuses. No more waiting.  
  
“Buffy?”  
  
Uncertain pause at the doorway and I know that voice. It makes me sick what I will have to tell her but what else can I do? She’s supposed to be innocent and instead she got me as her sister.  
  
“Hi Dawn,” I say gently, not looking up from the weapons as I slowly and carefully stack them on my bed. Reaching down to grab another axe from the recesses below my bed, I ask; “What is it?”  
  
“I’m not sure,” she whispers. “I feel like everything is stopping. Or starting. Like it’s going too fast—and it feels weird. We do this every year… but—“  
  
“This feels like the one?” I finish.  
  
She nods. “Is it?”  
  
“Could be,” I reply. “Doubt it though.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
She moves closer, her legs awkward. I can tell she’s shaking.  
  
“Because I’ve thought it was the one about a thousand times before, Dawn,” I say, placing a wickedly serrated knife on top of the pile. “It never is. Evil just keeps on coming.”  
  
“But this is the source of it, right?” she opines, walking over to my bedside table and picking up a picture of Willow and Xander that rests behind my lamp. Next to a bottle of perfume and a few beaten up copies of schoolbooks I will never read. Underneath the bed are old Kleenexes stained with lipstick and a few boxes of condoms, their edges torn because of urgency. Little snatches of a life I have tried so hard to escape from.   
  
I realize Dawn is staring at me and nod. “It’s supposed to be the source of it. Could just be big talk from a little wuss.”  
  
“That’s what you’re hoping,” she grins.  
  
I shrug and reach out, my fingers slipping on her hair. “Hope is a good thing.”  
  
“I hope we’re going to be ok.”  
  
“You’re staying behind.”  
  
“What?” her voice has a distinct tremor to it. I was afraid of this.  
  
“Dawn,” I respond, grabbing her shoulders, “you know you can’t come along. I have enough to worry about—how can I keep you safe and fight at the same time?”  
  
“But—I have skills now. I can help.”  
  
“You can help more by staying here,” I say firmly, stroking the slender bones of her arms. “I just… I can’t—I can’t go through another Glory. I can’t think of someone hurting you and just… it would distract me. And this is the most important fight I’ve ever—“  
  
“If its that important to you…” she pauses and her eyes shine bright with tears. There is something else there. I don’t know what. “I’ll stay. I guess I’m on boarding up the windows duty, huh?”  
  
My lips graze her forehead. She tastes like plums and cinnamon toast. Like my childhood. “Xander’ll help. Rhona’s going to stay behind with you.”  
  
Dawn’s mouth sets in a line. She attempts to smile but fails, quickly grabbing me in a hug and then nodding. “Ok. Be careful, Buffy. I don’t want to—I don’t want to go to another funeral. The first one was bad enough.”  
  
I watch as she leaves my room, narrowly missing Wesley.  
  
“Eavesdropping?” she snaps in his direction, and he raises his eyebrows.  
  
I shrug. “Sis stuff.”  
  
“I see. Have you got everything organized?”  
  
Sweat begins to prickle underneath my arms and along the plane of my forehead. “Willow’s on Wicca duty at the Magic Box. She’s meeting us there. Xander’s doing the construction thing. The Potentials are probably being useless somewhere. Angel’s looking at the Prophecies—“  
  
“The sun *will* disappear. Standard practice for evil. Also, I’d imagine the various creatures pouring out of the Hellmouth would appreciate some darkness.”  
  
“Darkness breeds monsters,” I reply absently and check to make sure there are no more flashes of silvers underneath my bed. Straightening up, I begin to rub my back and am startled when Wesley’s hands cover my own. “You’re stealthier than Angel sometimes.”  
  
“I’ve learned from the Master,” he says, his voice tinged with regret. “Are you worried?”  
  
“Always,” I say lightly. “But that comes with the Slayer package.”  
  
“I suppose the beauty and kind heart are simply a bonus?” he says quietly.  
  
My breath hitches. “You have the wrong idea about me.”  
  
“Do I?”  
  
“I’m not kind.”  
  
“Yes you are. But you hide it well. Sometimes I wonder why, but I think I know.”  
  
“Don’t analyze me. Nothing good can come of it. Only bad. Very bad.”  
  
He turns me around and touches my chin. “Perhaps you’re afraid I’ll come to know you? And then it will hurt more when I leave?”  
  
“Are you leaving?” I ask bluntly.  
  
“Would you like me to?”  
  
“Low blow, Wes.” I pause, considering. “Even for you.”  
  
His smile is slight. “Sorry. Even I can’t resist fishing every once and a while. I do have an ego, you know.”  
  
“Oh I know. And no, I wouldn’t be exactly upbeat if you left.”  
  
“But…?”  
  
“But life goes on,” I shrug, my mouth thin. “If you’re asking me to cry you a river, I can’t do it.”  
  
He presses a brief, bitter kiss to my lips. He tastes like coffee. Dark, wet. “I have a feeling you’re out of tears, Buffy.”  
  
“You could be right,” I murmur against him, leaning my face into the hollows of his throat, where it is damp and sharp with sweat. “I’ll be happy to have you fighting beside me, Wes.”  
  
His voice is thick. “Thank you.”  
  
“You’re welcome.”  
  
“We’d better go. We have no way of knowing when exactly the armies will begin to advance. Be careful, Buffy. I’ll be watching your back.”  
  
“Watch your own.”  
  
“I can multi-task.” He pauses for a moment and gathers me carefully close, his arms tight but gentle, as if he’s afraid I’ll come apart at the seams. “When we’re out there--- well… it’s not going to be pretty.”  
  
“It’s going to be messy,” I agree, leaning my head on his shoulder wearily. My temples begin to sting. “Sometimes I wonder…”  
  
“Why we’re doing this?”  
  
“Mmmm. Like, would it be such a bad thing if the world got sucked into Hell?”  
  
“Should I dignify that?”  
  
“No,” I respond, kissing the warm place behind his ear. “Just pretend you understand my logic. Makes for smoother sailing.”  
  
“I’ve never been a fan of that.”  
  
“My logic?”  
  
“Smooth sailing.”  
  
“You? I thought everything had to be orderly, precise—“  
  
Wesley places a finger over my lips, stilling their movement. “Let’s not resort to clichés to make this easier.”  
  
I’m silent for a moment. I can taste ammonia on my tongue and I feel as if I’m going to choke. Tears burn at the back of my throat and finally, I murmur; “I don’t want you to die.”  
  
“I don’t want you to die,” he replies, his smile slight. But there is no happiness in it.  
  
“But it was the same with Spike…” I whisper. “I loved him and I lost him and I just think… what if—I mean, what would be so bad about letting the world down? Just once? I’ve saved it so many times. I’ve let it drown me and burn me and… for what? Can you tell me that, Wes?”  
  
“Its what we are supposed to do,” he says firmly. “Its what you were born for.”  
  
“I was born to die?” I laugh hoarsely, struggling to get away from his embrace. “I hate this.”  
  
“So do I,” he responds huskily, not letting me go. “But that’s the deal, is it not? You’ve known it for years. You’ve breathed the world in and made it your own. How can you let it down now, Buffy? You couldn’t. I think I know you well enough to say that.”  
  
“Do you?” I whisper. “Maybe.”  
  
His kiss is hard and demanding. It bruises, and I give in, tasting his hot saliva and feeling the rasp of stubble against my cheeks. “Be careful, Buffy.”  
  
“You too,” I murmur, as he steps away, grabbing a knife and sticking it into the belt of his jeans. “Especially with that, or you won’t be fathering your family line any time in the future.”  
  
The edge of his mouth quirks. “I appreciate the humour.”  
  
“Its my specialty.”  
  
“Laying claim to my one power, Buffy?” Xander calls quietly from the doorway. “Can I just say how *not* cool that is?”  
  
Wesley gives me one last look, and then exits the room, nodding at Xander as he passes.  
  
“Finished window duty, Xand?” I respond, piling the swords into long, leather bags.  
  
He begins to help me, his body so familiar beside mine. “Almost. Dawn was a help.”  
  
“Sorry. She had to have something to do.”  
  
“Her and I understand each other,” he answers obliquely. “Dawnie’s no trouble. I know how she feels.”  
  
“And how does she feel?” I ask softly.  
  
“Like an outsider.”  
  
“You would know this how?” I inquire, stung.  
  
“She told me,” he says, without looking in my direction. “She feels like you’re not exactly open for discussion.”  
  
“Maybe I’m not the best sister but—“  
  
“You’re barely a sister at all, Buff,” Xander snaps. “So wrapped up in whatever drama that’s cooking with Spike or Angel – and we’ve all noticed how you’ve added Wesley to the notches on your bedpost—“  
  
“Don’t you *dare* speak to me like that,” I respond, my voice quivering with anger. “What I do in here is my own, private business. You don’t have any right talking about—Spike’s *dead*, Xander. And you’re still throwing him in my face?”  
  
“Why not?” he challenges me, our gazes locking. “He’s all you’ve cared about for months.”  
  
“That is *not* true.”  
  
“It isn’t? When’s the last time you’ve asked me how things are going with Anya? Or asked Willow how she’s feeling now that both her girlfriends are dead?”  
  
“Willow…”  
  
“Needs a friend right now.”  
  
“Willow and I haven’t been friends for years,” I say in low tones. “Don’t you see that? We both know it. We don’t see eye to eye anymore. I love her—but—too much has happened, Xand.”  
  
“I don’t see how everything got this way.”  
  
“Yes you do,” I reach up and touch his cheek. He doesn’t flinch away. “You always see things. That’s why you’re so valuable to me. That’s why I need you there today. To fight- and help me win. Ok?”  
  
He draws me against his chest. “I’m sorry we brought you back, Buffy. I know you didn’t really want it.”  
  
Startled for a moment, I lean into his hug and shake my head. “Too late now.”  
  
“But I’m still sorry.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
He sounds faintly embarrassed. “I love you, Buffy. Always have. Don’t forget that.”  
  
My breastbone begins to ache. A slow, steady drum-beat. “I won’t. I love you too.”  
  
+++  
  
The drum-beat continues to echo through my ears and wind its way down into my throat as we walk up the steps of the High School. Everything is shrouded in darkness and mist, the air choked with the smell of reeds and oil. It reminds me of a trip I took to New Orleans when I was younger, and I breathe in, trying not to cough.   
  
To my right is Angel. My left, Willow. Wesley, Xander, Wood, Anya and the Potentials all line up behind me, their faces pale but with shadows of determination. I can’t worry about them anymore. They are on their own. It’s the way it should be, I suppose. (We are alone) I have denied it (I am not alone), but even with all of them standing around me… I know this is my fight.  
  
“Good luck,” I say.  
  
“We’re going to need it,” Willow answers quietly. “But I’ll try and keep everyone covered by using magic.”  
  
“Are you sure you can handle it?” I ask, turning to look at her.  
  
“I’ll have to, won’t I?” she responds steely and then reaches out to graze my hand with her fingers. It doesn’t quite reach and falls away. “Sorry things couldn’t be different. Now, I mean.”  
  
“At the end?” I shrug. “We never picked the best moments to become estranged, did we?”  
  
“I can’t forgive you, right now,” she answers.   
  
“I understand.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
We ascend the last step. The edges of the door are glowing faintly, as if heated by an unknown source. I touch them with curious palms and feel the glow in my belly. Power. The Seal is open. The Hellmouth is open. I can feel it.  
  
“Ready?” I ask Angel.  
  
He takes my hand, lifting it to his lips. “Not really.”  
  
“Wanna see how many we can kill?”  
  
A slight smile graces his lips. “You’re on.”  
  
I open the doors, and we all step inside. Everything is white and gold, sparking with electricity and sending showers of flames into the air. They dissolve in the stillness, licking the sides of the building but giving off no heat.   
  
The growls are near. Snarling, scuffling, snorting, snapping jaws and sweaty, wide-open maws that want nothing more than to swallow us whole.  
  
“Come out!” I call, my voice cutting the air. “I’m ready.”


	11. Chapter 11

My eyes burn as we step further into the inky blackness, the school doors closing on us like a sweaty jaw, teeth snapping shut. I squint; anxious to see where the sounds are coming from, but can ascertain nothing from the murky, oily darkness- which I know will breed monsters. I can smell them and suddenly, I can see them, swarming down the halls, up from the basement, snuffling and growling, covered in clotted dirt and glowing, glowing. God. They are bloody, grimy, rotted with the decay and fire of the Hellmouth, their skins covering bones thick with thousands of years. White as snow eyes gaze at me, hundreds of millions of trillions and I feel myself begin to sway.  
  
Wesley and Angel’s hands on my arms bring me back. Shaking my head, I nod in their general directions, to show I’m all right.  
  
“Ready?” I shout.  
  
There is no answer but little squeaks from the Potentials. Well, some is better than none.  
  
“Willow, cover us,” I whisper and then I enter the fray.  
  
They sense that I’m the Slayer, that I have come to stop them. They sense that I have brought an army. To them, I am evil. I am thwarting their plans. I am disrupting the natural order of things. Well, fuck that. I know we’re two sides of the same coin, but I’m the Good side. I know I am.   
  
It becomes a blur. The thunk of fist meeting flesh is all I hear. Screaming behind me is slightly coherent, but I can’t tell who is making that sound. I don’t want to be able to tell. The vampires are coming at me in droves, their mouths open and snarling, and their teeth ripping at any available flesh when I give them a chance.   
  
Sickening thwacks of my skull against the wall, no… throw him over my shoulder. Broken neck. Good.  
  
I move on. There is always another to fight.  
  
I don’t know where Angel is. Where Wesley is. Is that Xander being tossed about like a sack of bones? No, no. A Potential races by me, stake at the ready. I smile briefly, thinking of teaching and all that I might never get to tell them—but there is no time—and I’m fighting. Blood runs thick and hot down my face, into my eyes. I taste the coppery tang on my tongue and smile again. Right hook and I bring my knee up with such force that bone crumples and slime shoots over my stomach. It stings and I watch it slide down my knees, dripping onto my boots.  
  
No time for disgust. I move on.  
  
Monstrous thing. Forked tongue like a snake, darting in and out of its mouth, papery against my cheeks as we fight. Lashing of its tail feels like a whip. Bloody stripes across my arms, and I cry out but I can’t feel them. Not really. Blurry as I slice off its head with my sword, the silver flashing brilliant in the glow of the room for one sweet moment, as the head rolls away on the floor.  
  
I look back briefly. Willow is shouting, her hair black as soot, her mouth breathing green sparks that shoot from between her lips like acid rain. Her arms are flailing, white flecks coming from her fingertips, which are stained red, flush with blood. I wonder for a moment whether the magic will kill her this time and decide I cannot care. I cannot care for my oldest and best friend because I have to care about the world. I have to get to the First.  
  
God. Where’s Angel? Where’s Wes?  
  
I have to get to the First. I have to get to the Seal.  
  
I miss Spike. I wish Faith was here.   
  
Silly tears fill the back of my throat, but I attempt to ignore them as I thrust my hand deep into the chest of the vampire in front of me, ripping out his heart.  
  
Suddenly I catch sight of Angel in the mess, beating the hell out of one monster as two more advance upon him. “I’m going to the basement!” I shout at him. “I need to get to the First!”  
  
“We’ve got your back!” he yells. “And I’ve killed thirty so far!”  
  
“Forty!” I call back, racing for the basement door, throwing vampires out of the way until I reach my target; throwing it open and slamming it shut behind me. My pants are harsh in the stillness, and I quickly pound down the steps. It knows I’m coming anyway. I think it knows everything, though that could just be my paranoia talking.  
  
As I run down the halls, their interweaving passageways whisper to me. ((We’ll get through this. It’s you and me.)) ((Drusilla liked the stars.)) ((Spike. You’re disgusting. You have a soul? Prove it.)) ((You glow)) ((Dawn? Dawn? Where are you? Where are you, Dawn?))   
  
My feet bring me closer and closer and I smell the flames before I see them. Kicking open the door, I stare in horrified wonder at the fire shooting from the Seal, forming a steady circle of orange and red, the flickers coming from the center, pure and white. Like their eyes. Crackling, buzzing, burning; like thousands of hungry bees, the flames shoot towards the ceiling, melting the plaster and tearing holes in the walls, making their way towards the sky.  
  
“SHOW YOURSELF!” I scream. “WE HAVE TO FINISH THIS!”  
  
I watch as a figure begins to emerge from the fire. Legs first, smooth and brown and sleeker than rain. Torso, sculpted, slightly rounded. Face.  
  
I stare.   
  
“No.”  
  
((“Buffy? The First will only take corporeal form when shown his or her Kindred. That is the information I was given. Use it wisely.”))  
  
“You can’t be. No.” I’m shaking my head frantically. It’s beginning to hurt my neck. One of my arms is broken. It’s the one I’m holding the sword with. I feel it suddenly. Everything begins to tingle, to glow. Everything hurts in such a strange, sweet way.  
  
Kindred.  
  
No. God, no.  
  
((It’s about power.))  
  
My eyes lock with those of the First. The First Slayer.  
  
“How…?”  
  
Her voice cuts through mine, clear and sure and much sharper than a knife. Nothing like the thick speech of years ago. “How can you be surprised?”  
  
“You’re not…”  
  
“Oh but I am, Buffy. I am the source of you. I told you that quite succinctly in your dreams not too long ago. Have you forgotten?”  
  
“You call trying to kill my friends through their dreams, *succinct*?” I snap, my mind whirling.  
  
“For me, yes,” she smiles, revealing straight, white teeth.  
  
“But I don’t understand—“  
  
“Before there were demons, there was a Slayer. She was First. The evil was poured into her. The good, the evil, all of the power in the world.”  
  
“The power?”  
  
“Every last drop. Sucked from the earth and placed in a body. Mine, to be exact.” She moves closer to me, her eyes hypnotic. Coffee-black, with no reflection. “We offered you that power, Buffy, but you refused to take it. I was not surprised.”  
  
“You wanted me to become like you,” I say, disgusted.  
  
“You are like me. You just have not realized it yet. All of the little tasks you have done… all of the duties? They have been leading up to this moment. Killing Angelus to save this planet? Very noble indeed. Fucking William the Bloody for an entire year and getting off on it? Not so noble. But… then, power can be a tricky thing, can’t it?”  
  
“I am *not* like you,” I murmur, my belly roiling. I feel the sting of vomit at the back of my throat, and I cradle my injured arm, the bones moving in a jumble beneath my skin. “I’ll *never* be like you.”  
  
“So much denial in one so young,” she croons, touching the dancing flames with her fingertips. I am reminded with a jolt of the way I caressed the swords earlier today. Old friends. The familiar. Kindred. “We’ll soon cure you of it. You must realize, Buffy, I have been crafting Slayers for too long to give up now.”  
  
“Crafting them for *what* exactly?”  
  
“To put an end to this Hell,” she sweeps her graceful hands through the air, as if it were butter beneath knives. “You must see that the mortal coil is failing? That it is up to us to restore a sense of order to the world?”  
  
My eyes burn with tears. “Do I really come from this evil?”  
  
“You do. You come from me. My daughter. My precious daughter.”  
  
I think I’m going to throw up. “Don’t call me that. I have a Mother.”  
  
“I killed her.”  
  
Rage chokes me. “I’m going to rip out your heart.”  
  
“You can’t.”  
  
“Why not? You’re corporeal. I can do whatever I want with you.”  
  
“You’d never beat me.” Her laugh is soft, gentle. “We are connected. You could never *want* to beat me, Buffy. I’m what birthed you. I have shaped you to become the greatest Slayer in history—“  
  
“Buffy?”  
  
Uncertain voice from the doorway and I know that voice but for a moment think I’m hallucinating.  
  
“Rhona said she couldn’t stay and I didn’t want to be alone and who is that Buffy?”  
  
“The little sister,” the First claps her hands together. “And right on time. You Summers girls are a punctual bunch.”  
  
“Punctual? What do you mean?” I ask warily, staring at my sister and wishing her a thousand miles away. “Dawn, get OUT of here, for fuck’s sakes!”  
  
“Stay, Dawn,” the First intones quietly, and my sister immediately walks into the room, as if pulled by her voice. “Good, good. Now, Buffy- you have a choice to make. An obvious one… but a choice nonetheless.”  
  
“A choice?”  
  
“She is the Key. You made the wrong choice before. With Glorificus. Death was to be your gift. The death of the world. Throw the Key into the flames, and you may rest. We will give you Heaven.”  
  
My eyes stray to my sister, trembling and sobbing but looking as if she was expecting this. She is swollen with tears, red and disgusting and crackling with green energy (I see it) and I move past her, glancing at the fire, at the dawning of what could be a new age. A new world.   
  
((“Her blood smells like heaven.”)) ((I remember everything. And sometimes I think that’s a shame.)) ((The Cliff’s Notes of it all is that some guys offered me extra power to defeat the First. I said a resounding no way in Hell. It felt like rape. As if they were trying to invade my body. I just—it felt too familiar.”)) ((If you don’t save us, no one else is gonna.”)) ((“Ashes to ashes?”)) ((“Your choices are not the best, Buffy. But we’ll manage that soon enough. What I enjoy is how oblivious you remain to my true motivations.”)) ((“Yeah. No one’s gonna survive this.”)) ((““But that’s no reason to stop living. It’s no reason to stop surviving.”)) ((It was a slow, snowy death- full of icy lakes and a wolf named Skoll whose slavering fangs swallowed the sun, plunging the world into darkness.)) ((“I destroyed more than just my own life with that one action. Choosing the world over them proved too much for them to appreciate or understand.”)) ((“I don’t want to save the world. I don’t want to be Dawn’s Mother. I don’t want to love you… I just want peace. I *need* peace.”)) ((“Do you want it, Buffy? I’ll end it right now and you won’t ever have to be here again. They’ll let you rest.”)) ((“You think you don’t have choices. You think that someone is deciding all of this for you. There are always choices.”))  
  
The First Evil’s gloating smile begins to look like a mouth of red, glowing teeth. I stare at her, and at Dawn.   
  
“No way in HELL am I giving up my sister,” I say calmly.  
  
The First’s head whips around and she glares at me, snarling; “You do NOT choose her?”  
  
“You’re wrong,” I whisper, and clutch Dawn’s hand for a moment, pushing her out of the way, towards the door. “She lives. And so will I.”  
  
“You have made your choice,” the First snaps, and comes towards me.  
  
Our first blows are with fists. My arm screams beneath the skin, but I ignore the pain, executing each movement with precision, with care, and with the instinct I have honed for years. Hot, salty sweat drips into my eyes and I blink it away, mistaking it for tears. Right hook, left jab with my elbow, knee up, kick out, roundhouse. It is all a blur. I can’t even see. The glow within her burns my flesh and it begins to sizzle, scorching black along the thin skin of my wrists.   
  
“Aren’t you afraid?”  
  
“I’m not afraid to die,” I whisper, kicking her against the wall, and bringing up the sword and slamming it straight through her heart. “But I do want to live. Goodbye… Sister.”  
  
\+ +  
  
Dawn huddles against me as we walk upstairs, opening the door of the basement. She is weeping softly, but I know… I know she is not unhappy. She will be when I ground her for a hundred years for leaving the house, but that’s better left until later tonight. I kiss her cheek, tasting blood and wincing.  
  
“Summers blood,” she murmurs.  
  
I smile at her. “You’re right.”  
  
“I’ve gotta sit down…”  
  
“Sit,” I move her to the floor. “I’m going to go see about some bandages, ok?”  
  
“Ok. I love you, Buffy.”  
  
I touch her hair. “I love you too.”  
  
The sky is still shrouded in darkness, but there are no more vampires. Bodies, human bodies, lie strewn over the floor, over the steps, their arms and legs crooked, their bloody faces un-recognizable.  
  
Glancing to my left, I suddenly see Willow. Thick, white gauze covers where her left arm used to be. Cradled on her lap is Xander. His eyes are closed. She is crying.   
  
“No.”  
  
Willow looks up. “He’s dead,” she says, without much inflection. “He took a knife to the stomach just a few hours ago. I tried to save him, but there was too much—“  
  
“You did everything you could,” I say dully, not able to comprehend that its Xander lying there.  
  
“How would you know?”  
  
“I know.”  
  
She glances down at him. “I don’t know what…”  
  
“I do.” Kneeling, I reach out and my palm rests against his heart. “He always saw. He saw everything. I know where you’re going, Xand. I’ll miss you… God, I’ll miss you so much.”  
  
Willow’s fingers cover mine. “He was mine first,” she says softly.  
  
I nod. “I know. I’m sorry. I did this. Its my fault.”  
  
“You’re right. Can you leave? I can’t…”  
  
My throat aches. “Yes. Yes, I’ll leave.”  
  
Standing, I cross the steps, immediately running into Wesley and feeling his arms go around me.  
  
“Who else?” I whisper.  
  
“Anya,” he replies bluntly, his hands stroking down my back. “Most of the Potentials. Except Rhona- she arrived too late. Andrew. Giles is fine- he just went inside, I think he’s helping Dawn.”  
  
“Angel?”   
  
“I haven’t seen him.”  
  
“You’re covered in blood.”  
  
“So are you. You look beautiful.”  
  
“You’re also blind.”  
  
He laughs quietly. “So did you destroy it? You must have. The vampires were vaporized in what seemed like a split-second.”  
  
“No, I didn’t destroy it. I have a feeling evil will always exist. But… that’s what Slayers are for. I doubt Sunnydale will be Hellmouthy again for a long time, if ever.”  
  
“What will you do now?”  
  
I glance up at him. “Re-build. I want… I want to do something for the Slayers. Make sure they live past twenty-one. Give them a Council that respects them. We need a new one, that’s for sure.”  
  
He tucks a bit of my hair behind my ear. “Need any help?”  
  
“Yes,” I touch his cheek. “Yes, I’ll always need your help for something, Wes.”  
  
His kiss is gentle. He tastes like copper pennies and oranges, and I gaze into his eyes.   
  
“So you’ll stay? Or you’ll go?”  
  
“I’ll be whereever you are,” he says with a slight smile. “If that’s all right by you of course.”  
  
“Shut up,” I whisper. “You know it’s more than all right.”  
  
“I’m glad to hear it.” Cupping my elbow, he takes the sword from my hand and drops it onto the ground, turning me around. “Someone’s waiting for you.”  
  
My eyes lock with Angel’s across the parking lot and I relax, the warm rush of relief flooding my belly. “See you in a few?”  
  
“Go,” he nods, touching my back.  
  
Angel and I meet in the middle, and his arms wrap around me, his embrace a past I have never quite been able to shush away.   
  
“Déjà vu,” I whisper and he tightens his hold, his fingers tangling in my hair.  
  
“Except this time, I’m not going anywhere.”  
  
“Yes you are,” I murmur, looking up at him. “Let’s not pretend we can be anything right now.”  
  
He stares at me as if he doesn’t understand. “Buffy… don’t you want…?”  
  
My chest tightens painfully. “Did I ever tell you… that you were in Heaven with me?”  
  
Angel’s eyes go black as midnight and he presses me close. “Oh my God…” he mutters softly.   
  
I feel the sobs threaten; “You were my Heaven. Being with you…being at peace. But that’s not reality. Not yet.”  
  
“When the wars have ended?” he asks, his palms sticky with blood as they shape my face.   
  
“I hope so,” I whisper and kiss him. Lightly, as if my lips are the wing of a moth sweeping against the moon. “Just promise me this… someday, you’ll be happy?”  
  
“I promise.”  
  
Stepping away, I turn from Angel. I turn from the fire.  
  
I don’t smile. But a hint of one—a ghost of a bittersweet smile hovers on my mouth. It’s a start.

~Finis


End file.
